


now that the end's in sight

by euterpse



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1940's politics, Cheating, Drowning, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, Tags Will Be Updated With Fic, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 03:23:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20202925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euterpse/pseuds/euterpse
Summary: There's a guilt every time he knocks on that pristine white door. Stabbing through his chest and settling deep where Alexander's morals should be. But then, Alexander shouldn't be discussing morals, when his wife is collateral damage for all his political career, all his fuck-ups and right now, for his affair with Thomas Jefferson of all people.





	1. the flesh will have its way

_June 11th, 1947 _

Thomas feels Hamilton’s sweat dripping onto his chest. His blunt nails are digging into Thomas’ wrists, and his neck still tingles where Hamilton has left what will surely become bruises. Hamilton stays there for a few moments, his eyes closed shut in somewhere between exhaustion and concentration, as if he’s trying to push the thought of something from his mind.

Knowing him, Thomas is sure that he’s doing exactly that. 

Hamilton’s eyes open after his breathing finally slows down. Him and Thomas make eye contact for a split second, a terribly uncomfortable second, and before anything gets _ too _ on the intimate side, Hamilton rolls off of him. 

Thomas lets out a disappointed sigh. Who the disappointment is directed at, he’s not sure he wants to know. Part of it is Hamilton for being so _ insufferable_, but also for being the only man in the entirety of Capitol Hill who knows how to use his dick, but most of it is at himself for stooping so low. It’s easy to pretend that Hamilton was decent when neither of them were talking about anything that mattered. 

His head rolls onto its side to look at Hamilton’s back– it’s covered in scars, some nicks, some bullet grazes along the flesh. Thomas has never reached out to touch them- he’d come close, though. It was when they were early into their arrangement, back before they truly couldn’t stand one another- fuck, Thomas was starting to think of this _ thing _ the same way his coworkers thought of their shitty marriages- that’s besides the point. He’d clawed down Hamilton’s back, the action now feeling terribly wrong- sacrilegious, in some twisted way- and they’d paused for a moment, and Hamilton just shivered with discomfort and told him not to do that again. It all feels so long ago. It’s strange to think it had only been a year ago.

He hears the lighter start to flick and sighs again as he takes in the familiar scent of tobacco– cigarettes specifically, even though he knows Hamilton has a preference for cigars. That the cigar makes him feel bigger, more important, but it also might be making up for this; for what he does behind closed doors. To make him feel more masculine.

Sometimes, Thomas wonders how the Hamilton's have managed to make three little monsters. Everything Hamilton does is for the sake of show- the possibility of the man having the capability for even an ounce of genuine intimacy… is hard to believe. Part of him pities Eliza, though, and imagines she’d be mighty horrified if she found out just what her husband was doing in these late hours. Thomas sucks in a breath. Perhaps she’d be a little less mortified to know if Hamilton were at the very least doing it with another woman, and one younger than her by a couple of years. Rather than him. His political rival, older than him by over a decade, and the bane of every policy that her husband lovingly crafts. Thomas doesn’t know why his thoughts occasionally stray to her- it’s nobody’s fault that Hamilton cheats, and it’s nobody’s fault that the fairer sex and her charms are lost on Hamilton. 

Perhaps it’s just that pity he mentioned. She seems like a kind woman, certainly one who could’ve ended up with someone _ leagues _ better for her than Hamilton. Then, Thomas shouldn’t be talking about doing leagues better than Hamilton, while the man sits in his bed, having a smoke after wringing an orgasm out of him.

Not that the fact makes Alexander anymore bearable. He’s still a die-hard republican and he likes to shit on the poor and their level of education- as if he were the heir to his wife’s family fortune, rather than a literal island boy who clawed his way out of there with a paper that labelled him a protege. 

How quick Hamilton is to forget. But he’s the only one that does. All the large families, especially the ones from down south, remember good and well who he is, and when it’s convenient to do so, they give him a good reminder. It’s only the wall street rats from up north who give him the time of day, stroke that ego and soothe Hamilton’s ever-ruffled feathers.

Thomas holds back a snort at the very image. Hamilton, a ruffled rooster in his ugly green jacket, always haphazardly dressed under it. It works well, with that rather proud profile of his.

Hamilton takes a drag of his cigarette, and the heavy breath interrupts Thomas’ train of thought. Still not speaking, he hands Thomas his lighter. It’s black and rough to the touch– obviously rationed out to soldiers during the war, in the conquest to save any and all scrap metal. Obviously, Hamilton has not forgotten his post– or refuses to forget it. Thomas takes it. He throws a hand out, finds the pack again, haphazardly shuffles a cigarette out, lights it, and hands the lighter back. It’s oddly quiet. _ Too _ quiet. 

They don’t move closer to one another, just splayed out and enjoying the slight nicotine buzz. Their shared habit of smoking after fucking is just that– habit. Thomas doesn’t particularly savor it– not anymore than one particularly savors brushing their teeth. It’s more of a way to feel like the routine is complete; not that the cigarette doesn’t allow him to properly wind down after it all. 

He brushes his hair from his eyes, the coils starting to blur his vision– damn, he needs a haircut already. 

Hamilton is the first to speak. “I don’t believe I’ve heard your take on the National Security Act, yet.” He says. He pauses, and takes a deep drag, as if the thought of the act stresses _him_ out as well.

_ Fucking unbelievable– of course he’d bring up politics right after this_. “Can we at least wait to do this until I finish my goddamn smoke?” He asks, voice quick with annoyance, and said smoke slipping out of his mouth as he speaks. Hamilton takes another bitter drag, as if Thomas has just infringed upon his fun. Thomas makes a face in turn. “Don’t make that face, it’ll wrinkle your forehead." He chides. "Besides, don’t forget that we get paid to discuss the very shit you’re asking me about– and I, frankly, don’t want to think about it until I’m on the clock again.” And he looks away this time, sitting up and brushing back his hair to get it out of his peripheral. 

Jemmy had told him not to get involved with Hamilton. They had gotten involved when Hamilton had left the military– and even then, James wasn’t his first tryst with the same sex. Hamilton had been just as rough, just as angry, unyielding, and unwilling to admit to himself that this was what he wanted. No, he would pretend that it was anything _ but _ what it was. He would lie to and fool himself, saying that it was a power trip, that it was just that Eliza didn’t like it rough. 

They had both snorted at that. _ Find a woman who likes it rough, then_. But everyone who had been with Hamilton knew that wasn’t what it was about. Hamilton was repressed and wound up, waiting constantly to find someone who'd fulfill his desires. A _man_ who'd fulfill his desires. 

Jemmy warned Thomas against being invested; Hamilton would never come to terms with himself, and to care about him in that way was just going to end up in unnecessary hurt. Nothing would make him stop kidding himself. James had figured that out early on, and they'd split ways. Thomas looks at Hamilton, and wonders if that’s how it’ll end with them– if the attraction will fade, or if things will become too serious and they’ll burn each other out. If they’d just split ways before it got to either of those points. 

Maybe when Thomas quits; he can’t imagine himself giving up their little affair so long as he has to deal with Washington every other day, and has to hear Hamilton’s braindead politics. But maybe when he goes back to Monticello, where there’s peace and quiet, he could just break it off and leave it there. The one who would be left unable to cope would be Hamilton, because he would have to find another partner who’ll be content to satisfy his coarser tastes, as well as deal with whatever shit Hamilton has to spew on that given day.

It’s another few minutes before they speak again. Thomas reaches the inconsolably awful part of the cigarette, and ashes it, waits for Hamilton to finish his, and then sets the tray back on the nightstand. 

“About the Act,” Thomas starts, but he finds his head already starting to ache at the thought of doing this here, violating the space of him and Hamilton's sexual banter; violating what could’ve evolved into round two. Maybe if Hamilton didn’t have tunnel vision, Thomas would suck him off, or just fucking talk about normal shit._ How are your kids? Same time next week? Your dick felt bigger than usual today, that’s a nice bonus. _

“It’s important, but I feel like it’s changing too much. You’re abolishing the position of Secretary of War, just to put it under a different-”

“That’s not what I’m trying to d-”

“Let me finish, Hamilton. You’re lucky that I didn’t just tell you to get out of my house, since you’re working me off the clock,” Thomas says. “The Act is changing the very way our Cabinet is run, and the way the Navy and the Army are run.” He says. “It’s… interesting, I won’t deny that. But I feel as though it’s a little much for a war that hasn’t even officially been declared.” 

“Nothing gets past the Reds. Stalin’s already setting up here in the states with plants, I’m sure of it.”

Thomas scoffs at the notion. “Don’t tell me you’re joining in on that ridiculous, fear-mongering shit. You and I _ both _ know better, Hamilton.” Sometimes, Thomas wondered if Alex ever believed any of the shit he said, because it was just that goddamn ridiculous.

“What, so we’re supposed to lie and say that there’s no threat at all?”

“That’s not what I was _ saying_, you ignorant shit- maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass, you’d know what I was saying-”

“I know that you’re a bleeding heart Democrat who goes a little too far–”

“That’s rich, at least I have the capability to _ feel _ for other people, _ Hamilton!_”

“You feel so much that you can’t even denounce an economic system that’s getting millions killed?”

Thomas is half tempted to take the bait, to say he’s denounced communism publicly _and_ privately, but Thomas knows exactly where to hit, somewhere that would actually hurt. He curls his lip, “At least I never cheated on my wife with a man I supposedly hate.” Part of Thomas regrets it the moment he says it. Another part is vindictive. _Good. He’s always stomping all over the entire Cabinet and trying to establish that he’s in charge of me, even out of the bedroom_. His eyes flick to the side, trying to gauge Hamilton’s reaction. Part of him hopes that Hamilton will just be pissed and don all his anger and his desire to prove that he’s a man, rather than be hurt. 

Hamilton fails him in that instance– fails to be distant and run hot just like he always does. Thomas damns himself when he sees Hamilton’s eyes become glassy. “Fuck you, don’t you _ dare _ bring Eliza up.” Hamilton looks rather like a raging bull, heaving through his nose. “You have _ no fucking right_.”

_ Shit_.

Hamilton sucks in a breath, and thankfully, he doesn’t cry. “You know, you’re the other woman, Jefferson, so quit passing the buck to me like you're not involved in this.” And it’s a weak response at best, but Hamilton always needs to have the last word. And sometimes, Thomas will just let him have it.

Hamilton gets dressed– a quick affair, shirt buttoned up unsurprisingly quickly– Alexander always looks just shy of neat, then tucked into his pants, and his belt is buckled as if Alexander can’t leave fast enough. Thomas just leads him to the front door, swiping a cigarette as he finds the will to roll out of bed. Always so hard to leave that thousand thread count. Their eyes meet for a moment, and in their weird way of reconciling, Jefferson holds it out. Hamilton stares at it, debating on whether or not he should do it or not. Just… waiting, if he is really all that pissed. 

Hamilton pulls out his lighter, and flicks it once. It lights, but he doesn’t hold it for that long. At least he’s not _ that _ upset. Thomas’ cigarette burns, and he nods, then takes a drag. “Same time next week?”

Hamilton pinches the bridge of his nose. As if he’s trying to find the will to say no. This always happens, with him trying to hold himself from it, when they both know that he won’t. Thomas thinks he can’t help it, help himself, poor fool. If it were anyone else, in any other arrangement, Hamilton would not forgive so easily. 

Hamilton takes a few moments before responding. 

“Same time next week.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The national security act of 1947 ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Security_Act_of_1947 ) is basically just a pre- cold war act, which removed the secretary of war and replaced it with the secretary of defense (Henry Knox historically was the secretary of war in the Washington Cabinet, hence the reference !)


	2. collar turned to the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander comes home.

_June 11th, 1947_

Alexander has always hated D.C. traffic. It backs up even in the latest hours, and the radio sometimes isn’t enough to cut through the piercing silence. The radio is on, yes, but even the radio becomes a white noise when Alexander dips too deeply into his thoughts. The drive is too long; it’s always too long. Christ, when had he agreed to be subjected to hour-long drives just to stick his dick in Thomas Jefferson of all people?

In his defense, Jefferson has a _really_ nice ass. Ridiculously nice. Even has a flare to his hips, though not like a woman's- but Alex supposes that’s the whole point. He’s obviously a man, just a man with a nice ass and a nice silhouette– so skinny that Eliza’s friends would _kill_ to have his metabolism or his eating habits, whichever it is. For all his democratic faults, Jefferson is pretty. 

Jesus Christ, someone just cut him off– Alexander slams his hand on the horn, only letting up when the shithead is out of hearing range. 

Back to what he was thinking of before his mind went places unbelievably inappropriate_. _Maybe it’s not the fact that the drive is long, but rather, it’s the guilt eating away at his soul. Well, the existence of his soul is debatable at the moment. A man capable of cheating of Eliza Schuyler is already a man who’s very humanity could be called into question. 

Perhaps he’s being a little dramatic, but he does feel guilty. Especially with Jefferson pointing out the fact that he _ never _ cheated on his now-late wife. Christ, was he really worse in that aspect? Unable to keep his hands off of the men around him? 

What would Eliza think if she could see him? If she saw the way he treated Jefferson in bed, she’d be sick to her stomach, and that’s without considering the fact that it’s _ another man_. But Alexander can’t think of all of that– he can’t think about it too much, or too in depth, because then he’ll give himself away. Eliza knows him best; she’d be able to read the guilt on his face if he put too much thought into it. She’d find the crease between his brows, the dent along his lip where his teeth had worried at it, and she always rubbed the spot with her finger, trying to make it go away; so he lets it go and turns up the music, trying to pay attention to the sad sound of Bill Kenny’s voice so that it would fill his head up with something, anything. He would hum along to the lyrics then, focus on remembering that.

He changes channels. Sinatra is playing, slow and somber, and Alexander hums along, because at least it’s something mildly better than the unending drone of the case facts from that damn radio show that Eliza had showed him. He’d heard that enough in his life. 

Well, that was a lie. He’d heard case facts presented in a courtroom very few times in his life for someone who went to Columbia undergraduate _ and _ law school. The draft had taken away what would surely have been a wealthy career as a lawyer; there were many things the draft took away. 

But Alexander won’t dwell on these things. It’s not healthy, or whatever the hell Eliza tells him. Dwelling too much on what could have been is bad for the mind, bad for the soul. 

There's that talk of the soul again.

It’s a long drive to the East End, but he makes it, pulls into their driveway and hisses as he knocks his foot against their garden gnomes. _ Shit_. God damn Eliza and her love of these awful things. Why she liked them so much, Alexander couldn’t figure out. But then again, Alexander _ also _ couldn’t figure out why he drove an hour to fuck the man whose politics he loathed most, and who drove him near tears. 

_ Fuck_. He’d been so involved in his guilt session that he’d forgotten that. He rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t know why he forgave him so quickly; gave him a light that he clearly didn’t need, that he didn’t even _ deserve _. The bastard, bringing up Eliza as if he wasn’t Alexander’s fucking mistress– pretending to be some unbiased third party, just watching Alexander’s decidedly fucked up marriage, as if he weren’t an active participant in the fucking up of said marriage. 

But in the end, Alexander knew he couldn’t be angry for long. Not that he cared about Jefferson, per se, but he did need that stress relief at the end of the week. Or, given that it’s Wednesday, in the middle of the week. Damn, that's not a good look on him. But then, Washington _ is _ the one wearing him thin. Near-daily Cabinet meetings and discussing the Act, and having to hear Jefferson’s grating southern drawl is Alexander’s version of nails on chalkboard. 

Well, not when he’s begging Alexander to _go_ _harder, fuck_. And he’s already sinking his keys into the lock. Better keep those thoughts down before something happens– if Eliza’s waiting for him– that he might not be able to explain away.

The lights are off. 

_ Thank God_.

Christ, he can smell himself, he really should try to convince Jefferson to let him shower before leaving; though that’s always shot down by the fact that he can’t stand Jefferson when they’re not fucking or enjoying the afterglow that lasts precisely twenty minutes. Though tonight's was record-breakingly short, all thanks to Alexander’s eagerness about his new bill.

He slips into the guest room shower. Better not to wake Eliza, if she actually is asleep. His shower is quick, and thoughtless beyond praying that he can just slip into bed and pretend nothing happened. Though, he does sort of just stand under the spray for a moment, just letting the warm water run over his tense back, his shoulders. He can almost pretend it’s a baptism, or another part of him and Jefferson’s unspoken rituals; give it some sort of meaning beyond trying to hide the stink of sex from his wife. 

He steps out, ready to just slide into bed, before stopping dead in his tracks.

Eliza.

She’s standing there, looking exhausted as she rubs at her eyes. “You’re home late.” She sounds more longing than accusatory. 

Alex wonders if she ever even _would_ accuse him of anything, but he just nods. “Got held up at the office.” He says, and finds himself yawning suddenly. The shower did always help in getting him to bed. There’s too much on his mind for this conversation. “And D.C. traffic- Hell on fucking earth, ‘Liza. Even at this hour.” Which is true. He huffs. If the road were empty, it’d only be a half hour drive, but their God is a spiteful one. 

Eliza looks like she doesn’t believe him, clutching the neck of her bathrobe in a way that looks just like Jefferson– _ no_. Alexander can’t start to think like that. God forbid. 

“It’s two in the morning, Alexander. Surely Washington wouldn’t keep you there until one.” She argues. It’s a soft protest. 

Alexander is quiet. He knows _ Washington _ wouldn’t, at least not _ two in the morning _ late. But Jefferson is a whole other matter. If they were young enough to have the energy, Jefferson would definitely keep him there beyond one. “It’s just this National Security Act, _ mi vida_.” Alexander assures, coming close and taking her by the hips. “Got us all stressed out, especially with Stalin making moves in here. We can never be too careful, you know?” He says, and Eliza just groans, tucking her head under his chin. 

“I can’t sleep without you, you know.” 

Alexander kisses the top of her head. “I know. I’ll try to make it home by midnight.” And that’s another lie. Alexander hates himself for being the reason that it’s a lie.

Eliza argues again. “You always say that, and yet you always come back at this hour.” 

Alexander doesn’t have anything to say to that, for once. What can he say? “I’m sorry.” 

But Eliza isn’t like Alexander. She lets silence persist, and she pulls herself from her spot in Alexander’s arms, in the middle of the living room. She moves upstairs, looking back at him. Alexander is about to follow, about to move after her in some vain attempt in proving that she doesn’t need to worry, and if Eliza were more callous, she’d be able to see it for what it is. Or maybe she does see it– perhaps her problem is that she doesn’t want to call it out. 

They both hear the soft pad of footsteps down the stairs. Philip. He’s always the light sleeper.

“Papa,” He mumbles, reaching out for Alexander once he hits the bottom of the second flight of stairs, and Alexander bends down to scoop him up. He’s still small enough for Alex to do that. Alexander looks at Eliza and mouths _ I have him_, then walks Philip to the kitchen, already knowing this song and dance.

Sit him on the counter. Done. Grab the apple juice. Done. Hand him the plastic cup instead of the glass one. What’s usually instinct is active thought right now– fuck is Alex tired. 

He waits for Philip to finish before saying anything. “What’s up, _ pelusito_?” He says, tucking Philip’s messy hair away from his face.

“Had a nightmare.” Philip explains, and Alex rubs his cheek. “‘Bout what?” He prods, trying to get it out of him so that they can both sleep.

“You were gone, Papa. Mama and I went into the city looking for you, but we got lost, and Mama forgot me outside the car. It was all dark and I didn’t know anyone.” And he doesn’t tear up, but he can tell that the dream made him decidedly upset.

Alexander weighs his options. He kisses Philip’s forehead. “Hey, look. Neither me, or mama are going anywhere. We’re gonna be in bed, right next to your room, and we’re gonna go to sleep.” Alex hums. “I _promise_ you, Pip, I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna be here every night, no matter how crazy late. I’ll always be here before the sun is up. Cus I gotta protect you, Mama, Angie, and little Alex.”

Philip looks somewhat calmed, but as he hears a yap from upstairs, he points out. “And Lucy, and Constantine?” 

Alexander nods solemnly, as if it’s a terribly important promise. “And Lucy, and Constantine.” 

Philip nods, and now looks satisfied. “Can you come to bed?” And Alex hums, scooping Pip up again before walking up those two flights of stairs, always feeling much more perilous whenever you have another living being in your hands. He settles Philip in bed, and sits beside him. 

“Stop coming late. You keep missing dinner.” Philip yawns, looking up at him. And Alex knows it’s for him to listen to whatever thought pops into Philip’s bright little head. And Alex grins, feeling rather full of affection for his son, his firstborn, his darling boy. 

“Promise I’ll keep it to just once a week.” He says, sticking his pinky out. 

Philip’s eyes widen, clearly taking the pinky promise as something carrying quite a bit of weight. He curls his little pinky around Alexander’s, and they shake on it. Well, ‘shake’. 

Philip nods, and settles under his covers before making his way to the master bedroom.

He sinks under the covers, ready to just roll onto his side before falling asleep. As it turns out, Jefferson really took it out of him tonight. His eyes are already starting to fall shut.

“Alex?” Shit, he’d almost forgotten their unfinished conversation, left before Philip unknowingly wandered in on it, cutting it short.

“Yes, Betsey?” He says softly, turning back to face her. 

“You would tell me if something was wrong, right?” Alex can see there’s some wanting there, even in the dark with her trying to pretend that it’s just out of concern for him. This runs much deeper, deep into how their relationship has devolved for the past few months. 

Alexander doesn’t know if he can manage to lie to her again in the evening. He wants so badly to be able to say that saying _ yes _ is the truth, plain and simple. But it simply didn’t pan out that way, and Alexander ended up with a beautiful, loving wife who he can barely manage to even be somewhat attracted to. And he doesn’t even know why that is. He wants it, wants to be able to be attracted to her, and when they fuck to be genuinely turned on by her moans of _Alexander_ and her cries out to God, and perhaps if it were someone else’s voice, then it would _ spark _ something in him. But they don’t. 

No, Alexander just focuses on the _way_ she says it. Always focusing on the aesthetic of things, when it comes to Eliza. Even in their most intimate moments, it’s all about the look, the sound, the appearance of it all. Of her.

There’s also the times where he can manage to genuinely fool himself into thinking he loves her. When she traces her fingers over his old scars, when he sees her sat over Alex Jr.’s crib, humming a lullaby in her sweet singing voice that sounds ethereal when in the dark, the only backdrop being baby Alex’s babbling and Alexander’s breathing. When she takes the time to straighten and tidy Alexander’s clothes. When they’re in the afterglow, and Alexander is hugged close to her and he can feel the soft rise and fall of her chest. Inhale, exhale. 

And Alexander has to find it in it to lie to her, or it’ll all come apart. “Of course, darling.” 

And he's damned just for saying it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Bill Kenny is a member of the Black Ink Spots!  
2\. Peluso/Pelusito is just a term of endearment for people with a lot of or very curly hair.  
3\. Lucy and Constantine are the family dogs! Lucy is a pomeranian and Constantine is a cocker spaniel! Lucy is Eliza's, given to her as a wedding gift, while Constantine was gifted to Alexander by Washington after WWII ended.
> 
> Anyways, feel free to hit me up on my tumblr @collinhoskins!


	3. she's right here waiting

_December 14, 1941_

Eliza had been a vision in white. Her darling Angelica had done all her makeup, fixing her up and smiling as she told Eliza to keep an eye on that boy, that he looked like the type to wander. Eliza had smiled and waved it off. “Alexander isn’t that sort of man.” She had said. 

Angelica had smiled it off, and just kept doing her makeup. 

Alexander hadn’t seen her the entire day. They’d even slept in different beds, though Eliza had teasingly complained about the unfairness of such a tradition. Keeping her away from her love was so cruel. But, Alexander had just taken her hand and promised to find a workaround so that she wouldn’t have to suffer the night alone. 

He’d fulfilled that promise later in the evening. Sometime in the late night, he had slipped out of his bedroom and slipped a note beneath her door. It would never compare to sharing the bed, his arm around her waist at night, but it was good enough. It would be enough for her to read about how he longed for her touch, how he wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t stand it anymore, how he couldn’t stand the night without her presence– just thinking of her sweet face would not be enough to slake his desire to be beside her.

It had been enough, then. She had fallen asleep with the note still in her hands, against her chest.

It was just as it had been when they first met. Alexander was a student, and Eliza had been coaxed into a nice restaurant, though not the sort that she would usually go to, by Angelica. Her father insisted on more high-quality places, _ always _flaunting that oil money of his, proving his status by spoiling his daughters.

Hearing commotion– that was new, she rarely heard commotion in restaurants– her eyes traveled to the source where she had spotted a group of boys. 

In the center was one in particular. Long hair that had partially covered big, sleepy eyes. His lips were pulled into a self assured smile. His clothes were well kept, but clearly low quality, and his mouth was moving a mile a minute. 

Perhaps it was childish naivete that had convinced her of the notion, or it was simply a matter of fate, but Eliza had fallen _ instantly in love_. Or at least, that was the only term she had to describe the sudden warmth in her chest. The sudden affection for this boy whose name she didn’t even know. 

She had tucked her hair behind her ear, and popped up her compact mirror to check her makeup.

Angelica had spotted him too, apparently. Sharp eyes flicking between the two, she gave Eliza a quick smile, and stood up, swaying her hips in that way that made Eliza just know that she was in for something. She knew she had nothing to fear, technically speaking; Angelica was a married woman, with hopefully no intent of going after the boy that Eliza had just set her sights on.

Angelica had smiled at him, and said something, _ something _ that Eliza would never be privy to. He responded with his own interested smirk. Eliza could just _ tell _ that something would go awry. Angelica had caught him: Angelica, in all her high fashion and her smooth diction that Eliza would never have a knack for– at least, not around strangers. 

But then Angelica had motioned to their table, where Eliza was sitting resolutely still, her mirror still in her hands as she sat there, a sitting duck to whatever her sister was saying. But he’d smiled, and flicked his eyes over, nodding to her and saying another _ something _ that Eliza would never know. 

Angelica had made her way back, a little smile on her face as she sat back down at the booth. Eliza smoothed herself down, and suddenly felt a shift in the conversation. Their voices had become hushed. And suddenly, cheap leather hit the tile, and Eliza’s heart sprang up, unforgiving as it battered around in her rib cage. 

He bent down and introduced himself: Alexander. The name sounded magical when he said it. Eliza smiled, and had leaned forward, with her elbows on the table, and introduced herself in turn. He asked for a date, and just perhaps her home phone. Eliza had just about fallen, with his tall posture and his sharp cheeks and _ everything_. She was helpless to him.

She was every bit as helpless when she had that note in her hand, three years later. Her heart still fluttered about in that same way.

Perhaps that was her great fault. Falling in love so deeply and wholly.

It had been the same way when she had woken up in the morning. Peggy had been the one to wake her, with an excited little smile and Eliza’s stays in her hands. She’d been the one to dress her, and do her hair excitedly. She’d also been the one who brought notes to Eliza’s boudoir, claiming it was from a certain bridegroom. 

She still has the notes from that day; at the base of her jewelry box, where her fine pearls and diamonds lay. 

She’d hooked her arm around her Papa’s, he’d smiled down at her. Alexander was the only man to truly convince Philip Schuyler that he was worthy of his daughter’s hand. Even Stephen had to date Peggy in secret: and her Papa loved the van Rensselaers! Perhaps it had been that Alexander had such a way about him– with his words and his kind, sad eyes– that just made people fall in love with him. Perhaps it was Eliza being biased, but she had no doubt that those who did not share her affection for Alexander were not worth the trouble, and those who did simply just _ understood_. 

The organ crested, and she had arrived into her beloved’s arms. He didn’t lift the veil first; no, he’d reached under and touched her cheek, soft and gentle. He’d whispered it. It was so small, so minuscule, compared to the gallant words he’d spared for her. Of all the ways he had referenced his affection for her, directly referring to it as what it was- oh how it made her heart ache with something both old and new. _ How much I love you, you will never know_.

When he had revealed her face to his, she had forgotten about it all: about the impending threat of Alexander’s draft, of all the struggles that would come once he was gone. It all fell away, into just her husband. The thought of him being her _ husband _ gave her a rush that she could compare to nothing else.

They’d listened to the wedding passages– but not really. They’d been smiling at one another, still. Alexander had some choice words about her wedding dress, obviously; he’d been eyeing up the ridiculous princess sleeves that Eliza had insisted upon. 

Eliza’s heart thrummed in a way she never thought she could feel when kissing someone. Alexander had cupped her jaw delicately, and kissed her on the lips. Something so quick, but so precious to her. 

This was nothing like the other kisses she’d had. When they’d first kissed under that great sycamore, it was a rush, yes, but a different one. The sort of what one thought would be a quick courting, that would ultimately end up fizzling out with the spring season. But it had not. It had grown deeper and stronger in a way she couldn’t have fathomed before meeting Alexander, with his wide grin and his sharp mind. With his sweet words, always calling her _ his angel_, and when Angelica had told her to take caution, all she had done was throw it to the wind. How could she not? 

She’d pulled away, and immediately had to smile for the flashlight. She hadn’t even had to fake it. Her smile was genuine– so much so that her cheeks hurt.

_June 12th, 1947_

Alexander smiles at her this morning. His dimples show, just beneath his cheekbones. 

He takes the coffee she made him, a black shot. He’d always playfully complained about how she made her own coffee; or, he used to, back when things were normal.

Eliza let him play the part. She would let him pretend that nothing was wrong, like this was not an issue that had been rolling and rolling into a greater and greater issue until their marriage had become this. She just wanted to know if it was her imagination, or if it was well founded. Perhaps his distance had been based in the fact that he had wanted to pass that National Security Act, something about the Marshall Plan and the Reds. He was always on the phone with his friend, Mr. Morris. His wife was always so catty, but Eliza could never quite figure out why. She knew it wasn’t exclusive to her, but it always made Alexander’s business-leisure dinners _ so _ insufferable. Then again, Mary was perhaps in the same predicament as Eliza. 

Maybe _ she’s _ the problem. That’s what Eliza knows is going to be the inevitable answer to her troubles. _ What did you do wrong? Have you been cold? Erratic? Unwilling in bed? _

Eliza couldn’t even answer yes to those questions. Her husband’s lack of love wasn’t due to her lacking– she gave so much. All she did was give. If he wanted, he could have her, if he wanted, she would listen to his sorrows, if he wanted, she’d keep quiet and let him say whatever he wanted. And she’d never deprived Alexander of anything, least of all her love.

It had been a gradual distance, slowly working its way to now, to last night. Alexander, her Alexander, barely even touching her. Though she couldn’t fool herself into thinking that last night was the only example of the decayed state of their marriage.

A big charade, that’s all it was now– a big game where Alexander gets to keep his image and live his dreams, while Eliza sits back and watches over three children. Running around and being miserable as she called out for Philip to stop being so mean to his sister, and oh, Alex Jr. still hasn’t eaten his potatoes. And Alexander comes back, to shut himself back in his study for hours until dinner comes, and he’s forced to stay outside for the rest of the evening, as though interacting with the lot of them is some sort of punishment for him.

Sometimes, Eliza forgets that she loves him. Well, that’s not true; not entirely. She loves Alexander. She loves him as dearly as she could ever love anyone. But he’s not the same man. He’s distant, often cold and curt in conversation. They used to be able to talk for hours, about anything, and his hand would be in her hair, and they’d kiss every few minutes, and it would be so good. But Alexander’s heart isn’t in it anymore. 

At least not anymore. Or not entirely. Maybe not ever again, maybe it has always been a big game, and now that they have enough children, he’s finally drifting away. Things are too stable for either of them to leave.

Eliza sits down with her coffee. Constantine is barking from the backyard, where Angie is giggling and clumsily tossing a frisbee. Philip is still getting dressed, and Alex Jr.’s applesauce is still being blended. 

Eliza is quiet until she finishes a few sips. “Angelica is planning a visit in a few months.” She says. 

Alexander doesn’t say anything for a minute. “That’s nice. Is she bringing John and Kitty?” 

Eliza watches him take a sip of his drink. As if everything is fine. “Why were you really out late, Alexander?” And that slow, gluttonous sip, pauses in its wake. As if he hadn’t expected it in the slightest.

“I was really out late working. Washington has me working on the Mar-”

“Don’t lie to me.” She says quietly. “Tell me you’re not lying to me.” 

Alexander pauses. Eliza can see the gears whirring in his head. As if he’s making up another lie in his head. Eliza expects him to ‘come clean’. “I’m not lying to you, Betsey, my darling Betsey.” He stands, and rather than leave it at that, he takes her hand, and kisses her hand in the center of their circular table. “I could never lie to you.” 

Eliza doesn’t pull away.

She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back. They pull away, and she takes a sip of her coffee. “Then-” 

Philip barges in, squawking as Lucy bites at his ankles, “Mama, tell her to stop!” Eliza springs from her seat, scooping Lucy up into her arms as she scrabbles against her chest. 

Alexander takes that as his cue to leave, to avoid an ugly conversation. But, really, what would Eliza say to him? What could she possibly formulate that he wouldn’t have a rebuttal to, because that’s just how he _ is_? _ Then, why won’t you touch me? Then, why don’t you kiss me anymore? Why won’t you look me in the eyes? _

None of it is _ fair._ It feels as though Eliza has been kept out of something, a secret, a cruel joke. To be dragged alongside another one of Alexander’s grand schemes. To be just the collateral in his great legacy, left to the side until he was ready to love her again. 

She just looks down at Lucy, her warm chocolate coat leaving itself on Eliza’s dress, still yapping, demanding to be put down as Philip demanded eggs– _ always demanding_– Alex Jr. wakes up to all the noise, and Angie brought in Constantine, after apparently satisfying the urge to run across the yard. 

Alex smiled at her again, took the final sip of his coffee, and gently squeezes her shoulder. They pause for a moment. As if the moment was frozen; and carefully, he presses his lips to her temple. 

Eliza contemplates the moment. Not to analyze it, just to commit it to memory. It’s enough for her, for now. To be kissed again, as if things had gone back to before the distance. Eliza smiles again and pats his chest. “Get to work.” She says, and she can’t help her content smile. She _ meant it _ when she said that she loves Alexander, loves him wholly, even when he can’t reciprocate the way she wants. So, she lets him take his time away, and lets him come back on his own time. 

So, she smiles at him, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek in turn— a chaste kiss for a marriage— and sets down Lucy before setting the pan on the stove, and cracks a few eggs with a little more zest to it than one would expect out of making scrambled eggs, after getting a little thrill from just that– the tiniest bit of affection from her husband. 

She pushes Philip to mow through his eggs, finishing just as the bus comes in. She gently helps him pull his backpack on his tiny shoulders, petting his hair and walking him to the bus, his hand in hers. Eliza greets the driver and watches as Philip rushes to the back with a delighted shout, then walks back rather quickly, mostly afraid of the thought of the newly arranged duo of Angie and Constantine accidentally hurting little Alex. She’s careful to lock the door. 

She sits back down at the table, finding herself abruptly exhausted by her morning routine. She gently pushes Angie to eat some fruit before going back out to play, and is about to feed–

_ Nausea. Unbearably awful nausea. She feels herself stumble to the garbage can- in the general direction of the restroom. Just a few more steps and she’ll make it. Just get to the door. _

She doesn’t make it to the bathroom, but instead she finds herself sinking her head down and retching into the kitchen trash can. 

Eliza doesn’t wipe her mouth; she just stares down at the can.

Eliza knows herself, knows her body; with three pregnancies, she knows when something’s _ wrong _ . Or rather, _ missing _. Always ridiculously early to the pitch. And with no prelude to this other than a faint spell of exhaustion… 

She wants to vomit again. With nothing to vomit, she just stares again, feeling abruptly blank at what would normally be happy news. Perhaps such news would even mend her and Alexander’s broken state.

But she knows better. She knows what it would entail, another shrieking baby for her to care for until they’re old enough to go to school. Another baby that _ Eliza _would be duty bound to care for, while Alexander, the patriarch, would get to run away from it all. Four children, and he gets to play the part of Alexander Hamilton, larger than life, war hero, Secretary of the Treasury, Washington’s favorite. 

And Eliza finds it in herself that she cannot handle it. She suddenly can’t handle her allotted role, her delegation to being nothing more than a caretaker, staying within the metaphorical four walls and pumping out children for a man who hasn’t given her anything more than the bare minimum of love in the past few months. Perhaps it’s not all his fault– her reluctance to bring another child into their growing family stemmed from something that neither of them could fix. Eliza couldn’t help being burdened by her space in society any more than Alexander could help the fact that she was born into that place, and he was placed into another. She loved Alexander, and she had managed to convince herself that he loved her– and it wasn’t a claim that was unfounded. He had given her all he could, he had swept her off her feet for years– in his letters home during the War, and during their years after. But now they had come under strain.

_ And that would not help_.

Suddenly, she finds it in herself to vomit a second time into the trash can, this time coming out as nothing more than acidic bile. It hurts going up her esophagus, and she’s left with the taste in her mouth as she coughs up the meager remnants of what was in her stomach. While little Alex demands to be fed, as Angie asks for more juice, as Constantine paws at her legs, begging for food.

For once, all she wants to do is just stare at the clinical white lid of the trash can. 


	4. lay your burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander remembers the war.

_June 21st, 1947_

Something is bothering Eliza, wearing at her psyche beyond the usual stress or fretting about their, frankly, large family. Her conversation had become more curt, no longer prompting conversation from Alexander or Philip, but rather just quietly feeding Alex Jr. and wiping at Angie’s face whenever she smears her boiled carrot along her chubby dark cheeks. It was more than a little bit concerning– she was beginning to sound more like Alexander with each passing day. She’d even started taking on her maternal duties with more sternness than usual, becoming upset with little Alex for not eating his food. Of course, she’d never shouted at him, but she handed Alexander the spoon and frustratedly washed her hands. 

It was all very out of character. Eliza hardly ever got angry, much less to the point where she’d just drop what she was doing out of sheer irritation. It all struck Alexander very wrong. Despite their distance in the past months, this was far from normal– something had to be truly bad for Eliza to reach this point.

The only thing Eliza didn’t seem to have spite for was Lucy, her prized little Pomeranian. A wedding gift, she was now bordering on seven years old, and had cost Philip Schuyler a hefty two hundred and thirty-five dollars. The number made Alexander wince when he found out. 

Alexander looks at the little yapping monstrosity now, picking her up by her abdomen. She weighs a little more recently. Last time the veterinarian weighed her, he said she was around seven pounds. Alex looks at her for a moment while she wriggles in his grasp. He eventually scoops an arm under her and just rubs at her belly. She isn’t coughing, so there’s that possibility gone. He knows it can’t be Constantine. He just spends his days running around and making a mess in the house. 

Perhaps it’s just him; it’s _probably _just him. Alexander loathes to think of it, of being the reason for his poor, sweet wife’s stress. Eliza’s done all she could for him– left her family in California, where the weather is warm and the beach is always nearby, to live in New York of _all _places. Just her luck to have been brought along her father’s business trip, to have been in New York, and to have been in Harlem. Despite the popularity, New York was god-awful. Covered in trash, and smelling like it, and it was only followed by D.C., with constant traffic and even less access to the sun or the beach.

The stress of being around an unloving husband and three of his children, above all else. Alexander wouldn’t wish it on anybody– least of all Eliza. And yet, he subjects her to it.

How did it ever get this bad? Since when was Alexander so careless about his wife? Since when had an affair gone on for this long?

Alexander looks at Lucy and her blank face. She always has a blank face around Alexander. She doesn’t growl like she does when Philip or Angie manhandle her. She doesn’t lick his chin and wag her tail like she does with Eliza. She’s so oddly blank, even for an old lap dog. 

Alexander can’t bear to stare into those blank, dark brown eyes. He sets her down, feeling more vaguely unsettled than when he picked her up. And now, comes the issue of finding her owner– at least, finding out what’s wrong with her. Alexander always used to be so open with Eliza, figuring out what was wrong with one another would just take a conversation. But things were different now, and Alexander knew that he was to blame. He can, at least, own up to that much. His hand is the only one involved in the undoing of what could have been a genuine, loving union.

He recalls the local priest talking about how Jesus forgives all sinners. How he died for them, died so that they would all be forgiven when the time came in the afterlife. But Alexander didn’t feel particularly absolved of his guilt. No, the only person suffering for his sins was Eliza. Eliza, and her warm smile. Eliza, and her soft hands. Eliza, who Alexander wants so desperately to be able to lovingly fall into, to long for her hands on his body instead of Thomas Jefferson’s, that vile swine and poor excuse for a politician.

Alexander hears her footsteps. He always knows it’s her– she’s the only one in the house who wears house slippers, because the tile floor is too cold for her feet. She’d said that before, when they were living in New York, and had wooden floors. And when they’d moved to tile, she’d teased that this was somehow worse than the wooden floors. 

They make eye contact as Eliza reaches the bottom step. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, and her eyebrows are knitted together, making a worry wrinkle that goes deeper than Alexander’s ever seen it from her. Eliza gently untucks the chair across from Alexander, sits in it, and looks down at the table before her eyes flick back up to Alexander’s face. 

“We need to talk.” She murmurs, low so the children don’t wake. Something is definitely wrong, and Alexander is sure she knows. How could she_not know? _Alexander’s heart is in his throat, and he tries to keep from fidgeting, knowing it’ll be a dead giveaway.

“What about?” He spits it out in a way that belies his worry. “I know something’s been bothering you recently, but I didn’t want to pry– you seemed very upset–”

Eliza gives him a look, and he goes silent. She sucks in a breath, as in readying herself. “I’m pregnant.” She says plainly. “I haven’t gone to the doctor, but I know myself, Alex. I know it.” She swallows, trying to seem as calm as possible. She knows how Alexander feels. They’d wanted to wait at least another year before having another child– pregnancy always strained Eliza, and having the entire Schuyler clan around fussing over her was more stress than help. 

Alexander feels as though he’s the one who’s going to be sick now. His eyes would be comically wide in any other situation. _Another child. Another mouth to feed, another strain on their relationship, another–_

“We haven’t done anything for at least a few-”

“Two months,” She says quietly. “I know.” Eliza interlaces her fingers, and leans forward. “I’ve always been early with the morning sickness.” And Alexander knows she is– that’s how she knew with Philip. And Angie. And little Alex.

_Fuck. _

Alex sucks in a breath, and he bites his bottom lip. He runs his hands through his hair– a nervous tick, and Eliza knows that. 

Part of Alex, the worst, deepest parts of his soul wonder for just a moment, if he could convince Eliza to rid them both of the issue, sparing him the concern of having another child, and sparing her the worry of nine months of pregnancy.

Alexander looks at her. The concern on her face, and the way she’s unclasped her hands, to put one on her belly. He sometimes wishes he’d married someone more calculating; or at least less naive and less nurturing. 

She looks back up at him, and Alexander knows she wouldn’t do it. Not even if Alexander asked, or begged, or paid for the whole thing and kept it hush-hush. Not a single god-damned thing would prevent this child, and despite Eliza’s concern, and her fears, she wants to keep it. He knows it, and he can’t help his irritation. As much as he loves his children, a fourth one would put so much strain on _everything_. 

Alexander rubs at his temples. Swallows. “We’ll have to get another crib, then.” He says. “Tell Doctor Hosack… and,” Alexander looks at the stairway. “Until we get everything sorted, don’t tell the other children.”

Eliza frowns deeply. “Why not?” She says, her face a little less welcoming. “It’s not like I’m early into the first trimester.” 

Alexander licks his lips. “Do what you want, then.” He says, voice detached. “I won’t mind either way.” He stands and starts the coffee machine, putting his mug under it while Eliza just sits there. She looks crestfallen, and she stands, too, putting her hand over Alexander’s on the counter. 

Her voice is shaky. “I know you don’t want this child.” She says softly. “I know that things are bad between us, and I know it’s another mouth to feed, and things are already strained while paying off the house. I know.”_ Talk about an understatement. _

She slips her fingers in between his. “I don’t want it, either. I don’t want to worry about the costs, or worry about doctor’s appointments and what I should be eating, and I don’t want to have to take care of another baby while Junior is so young.” _Easy for you, all you have to do is chase after them– you don’t have to bring food onto their plates. _She sucks in a breath. “But there’s nothing that we can do about it. You understand that, right?” 

Alexander suppresses the thought again. There is something she _can_ do, but it’s something that she would never be _able_ to do. 

Some part of him pities her; pities her sentimentality towards Alexander, even beyond this situation, even though she _must_ know what he’s doing, with his coming home late so often and hopping into the shower as soon as he steps foot into their house.

The worst part is that it’s not even the first time it’s happened. Far from it, actually. Her pregnancies always did push Alexander further into the arms of his paramours.

He wonders though, if it’s really so bad, if he’s so wrong for wanting to keep up the illusion of a content, normal marriage while satisfying his more illicit, and more importantly, _illegal,_ interests on the side. She still gets to be his wife on paper, and in the end, every night he comes home to her.

Alexander looks back at her, and squeezes her hand in return. “I know, ‘Liza.” He says softly. “I’ll make it work, though. _We’ll _make it work.” He turns around, and cups her cheek, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then tilting her head up. She looks so tired, older than she really is. Alexander sighs and gives her a chaste kiss. Her lips are soft; how long had it been since they’d last kissed? 

Alexander pulls back once the coffee machine hisses, and he sighs. “I trust your decision, Eliza. Just let me know what you’re going to do before you do it.” 

She nods and cups her belly again. “I’m going to tell Philip first, then.” She says, and Alexander just nods silently, watching her go up the stairs. 

Alexander looks down at the dark coffee. Rich and bitter, the only way he takes it. He remembers when he introduced it to Jack and Lafayette. They were children of aristocracy, with hands unused to hard labor, wincing as they slowly became calloused. Unused to the rougher way of life, where one lacked sugar and cream to make coffee go down easier.

He always hated thinking of those two. How they unwound his well-repressed feelings. They’d taken away his ability to have a normal marriage, ripping apart Alexander’s self control, and his ability to love Eliza.

** _January 29th, 1942_ **

Alexander hadn’t known what the draft would do to him. When he was one of the couple million soldiers sent to Europe, he’d just assumed it was to be meat made for the slaughter, or to be a show of good will to the Allied Powers.

He’d been so young then. Just twenty-six, and with a promising law career, if Professor Johnson’s opinion was anything to go by. He’d said that Alexander had a brilliant mind. And once he’d graduated, he’d spent so _long_ trying to find a job, even with Johnson’s recommendation. But he’d gotten it. And just after, he’d found a girlfriend in one of the wealthiest heiresses in the country. They’d dated for almost a year before Alexander popped the question, knowing that with the looming threat of war in Europe, they didn’t have much time. 

It happened early in the morning. His clock had cheerfully read eight o’clock before Alexander turned on the radio, and heard the news that Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor. A clear invitation into all out warfare. On the day he was set to be married.

It had been a month and a half after their wedding when Alexander was shipped off to Great Britain, leaving Eliza in their tiny New York apartment, to take on a factory job to pay the rent.

Alexander was still a footsoldier when him and Jack met. They were bunkmates. 

Just looking at him, the light scruff on his chin, the bump on the bridge of his nose that lets Alexander know that he was the sort of man who spoke with his fists, rather than with words. 

“John Laurens. Guess we’re bunk mates.” 

And he fell instantly in love. In a way that felt warm and felt so right. In a way he’d always known, the way one always knows. In the way he’d managed to suppress for so long, but found himself unable to keep that same composure for John Laurens. 

Even his name was easy to roll on the tongue.

“Alexander Hamilton. Where are you coming from?”

“Charleston.” He’d said easily, and from the top bunk, he looked down at Alexander. His eyes were delightfully dark, something one could get lost in. “What about you, then?” 

“New York City.” Alexander made no attempt to hide his pride, as if he were trying to impress this handsome stranger. Which he definitely was not. Laurens had eyed him, too. He’d looked Alexander up and down with those eyes, in a way that didn’t sit as a normal sizing up, Alexander just had a feeling about him. Nothing concrete yet, but something about Laurens had an air about him. Laurens chuckled, and after missing quite a few beats, he shifted so that he was on his back. “You speak French, Alexander Hamilton?” He’d said teasingly. 

“Yes.”

“Thought as much. You have a French air about you.”

“I do?” That was new. Never in his life had someone implied that Alexander looked even remotely French.

“Yeah, you look like a total prick.” 

Alexander sputtered for a moment, “What’s that supposed to mean?! You just _met _me, who _raised y- _” He’d been in the middle of his rant before realizing that Laurens was just… teasing him. He had a pleased little smirk on his face, and he was clearly on the verge of laughing. Alexander flushed, and if Laurens’ face was anything to go by at that, Alexander wasn’t the only one who had an avid interest in something he was not supposed to. 

Something he had to keep down, now. He had a wife, he couldn’t let twenty five years of damn near impossible levels of self control give way because of some stupid, baseless crush.

His chest hurt in the oddest way as he laid down in the bottom bunk, staring up at the bed above his. Thinking of his handsome bunkmate, and feelings long suppressed, but never truly forgotten. Feelings Alexander had kept a close watch of, hidden well. 

Feelings that he could no longer hide.

_ **July 3rd, 1943** _

Alexander had come to find that there was something that they both severely lacked. And that they had something instead of that particular quality, a more taboo quality that they shared. He wasn’t _alone _. Something he’d known conceptually, yes, but he’d never met someone like him. Not really. 

They’d both eventually moved up into the position of Aide de Camp, and for the most prestigious generals. They’d moved up fast. That was another quality that they shared. Ambition.

One could imagine Alexander’s shock when he found out that Laurens’ name traced back to _the _Henry Laurens. The Henry Laurens who was one of the biggest steel tycoons in both North America and Europe.

_23:40_

He stares down the clock, having long finished encrypting all the telegrams, he just leaned back in his seat. Waiting for more from Laurens. The last ones of the night, he promised. 

Alexander stared at the clock until he feels a hand on his shoulder. He knows that hand. Warm and soft, he’d felt it on his cheek, on his scalp, running through his hair, during stolen kisses that could only be done at an hour like this. “Knox wants these done by tonight, too. But these are it, he says.” Laurens looked at the pile of other telegrams, all encrypted properly within the hour that Knox gave him to do it, ordered them all into a neat pile, and set them right. 

Jack looked at him. And when he looked at him, it made Alexander feel something that Eliza had never made him feel. And when that warm hand reached over, just to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, Alexander’s skin tingled where John had brushed it. 

“You’re such a mess, you know that?” He said, and Alexander chuckled. “I know that. You remind me every time you see me.” 

“Because you are.” 

Alexander grinned and looked up at him. Part of him wanted to unbuckle John’s trousers, sink off the chair and take his mind off of encryption. But Knox was waiting, just a few rooms away. Plus, still too early for everyone to be totally asleep. 

So he just tilted his head up, silently pleading. _Go on, do it_.

John leaned in, and Alexander, the fool that he was, kissed him. He hummed contently and tugged on the sleeve of John’s shirt, then pulled back after a few long moments, blissful for every second they’d been touching. Alexander sucked in a breath, licking his lips. “I’m going to miss you when this is all over.” He whispered. 

John smiled sadly, then. “You have Eliza back home.” He chided, “Wouldn’t be fair to take you from her.” He sat back on the desk, and stared at the wall behind Alexander. “As much as I wish I could.” 

Alexander put his hand over John’s. “You wouldn’t be taking me away, if I was never hers.” 

John pressed his lips into a thin line, and sank his fingers into Alexander’s hair. “You’re hers. You have a kid now, Alex.” He’d sighed. “You can’t play footsie with me once it’s all over. Besides…” John sighed, looking back at Alexander now. “I wouldn’t ask you to ruin yourself for me.”

“We could be quiet about it.” Alexander had pled, wanting his lover, his _Jack _. “I want you.” He’d whispered. “I want for no one else. No society could ever make me love you less, Jack.” He whispered. “Leaving me to my wife would be akin to ripping my heart out.”

John looked almost pitying. “How poetic.” He hummed. “Alexander, you know that you’re my darling boy.” He whispered. “But I cannot. _We _cannot. You know that. You know that one day, Eliza will find us. Or, God forbid, someone else will. And what would be left of us then, Alex? We’d be ruined. _You’d _be ruined, or dead.” John cupped Alexander’s cheek. “Think of your son, at least. Would you leave him without a father?”

“For you, my love, anything.”

“I hope you don’t mean that.” Jack kissed him again then, more tender than the last time. 

And then Knox called him back to his office, leaving Alexander alone again.

** _May 6th, 1944_ **

They were alone. 

The bunker had started shipping out troops.

All the aides-de-camp were left for last, left to clean out all the sensitive information kept there. Alexander was always the encryptor, and he was tasked with carefully wrapping and putting the translation key in his pack. 

Knox liked him, though. Even Jack wasn’t allowed to read the telegrams that Knox was sending and receiving. And nobody worked faster than Alexander. Nobody wrote quicker, and with such clean writing, too. Knox was always impressed with his timeliness, with the quality of his work, and aid if he made it through Normandy, he’d put in a good word for Alexander. 

But Alexander wanted military glory. He and Jack were looking for the same thing. It just happened that Jack beat him to the punch; became Colonel Laurens for the battle of Brittany, ready to be sent a whole week before Alexander got the notice. He would be following his darling lover to France, yes, but rather than Brittany, he’d be sent to Normandy, as Colonel Hamilton, now. Hundreds of miles away. And he wouldn’t know if Laurens was dead or alive until all the troops came back. Skirmishes had already broken out in the Western Front, and soldiers were being sent there as backup. A testament to just how poor the situation was. They were sending the fresh meat, who’d yet to see actual combat, to get squandered.

He’d gotten what he wanted, yes, but at the price of being unable to see Jack’s face for God knows how long. Perhaps not ever again.

That’s why they were pressed close together, in Alexander’s tiny office, just taking one another in. Alexander tracing Jack’s bottom lip, looking at those warm brown eyes. “I’m going to miss you.” He whispered. 

“I’m going to miss you too.” John had murmured back. And it had sounded like a prayer. two years they’d been together. Two years of walking this dangerous rope with one another, avoiding dishonorable discharge and prison back home.

“I love you so much, Jack.” He whispered. “You should request to be transferred to Normandy with me. We can protect one another, we can stay together there.” 

John had chuckled a little bitterly. “I don’t think we can change this, Alexander.” He’d chided. “It’s set. You’re leaving for Normandy in two days. And I’m going tomorrow; battle’s due to break out in any day in the Western Front. They decided they needed me, and I’ll go.” John had a piece of Alexander’s hair in his hand, curling it around his finger. “Besides, fate is fate.” He whispered. “I’m meant to be in Brittany. You’re meant to be in Normandy.” He’d said. “All we can do is hope for the best.”

Alexander was quiet, then. “You’re being rather passive, for once.” 

Jack smiled again. “I’m a big boy, Alexander. I’ll take care of myself.” He cupped Alexander’s face, this time with both hands. “And I’ll come back to you. I’ll even make the trek up to New York, if that’s what you want of me.” He said. “I promise, Alexander. I’ll write you whenever I can.” John pressed their lips together. Soft and sweet. As if sealing a vow. 

John’s eyes were looking over his face. Taking him in, as well. He smiled, and not sadly this time. “You’re the only true love I’ve had, Alex. You know that?” He said. “I’ve had a lover before you. But I _love _you, darling boy.” And Alexander couldn’t ask anything else of him. 

“And you, mine.” He’d sighed it out. “My only love. All you need to do is survive.” 

** _June 21st, 1947_ **

_23:27_

_Fuck _. Alexander just stares at the note now. From Henry Laurens, steel tycoon, announcing the death of his son. Saying that Alexander was among the list of people who should have been alerted.

He’s reliving it again. The shock of finding out that Laurens, too, had a wife and child. A daughter, two years older than Philip. Her name is Frances, and her mother’s name is Martha. Her mother’s British, too, living in South Carolina, on Mepkin, Laurens’ property.

Thinking of him that way helped ease the pain. Calling him Laurens instead of John separated them, helped him forget all the painful memories. 

Alexander folded the letter again, setting it in his drawer, hearing Eliza come back from her midnight run to change Junior. 

He always mourns the life he could have had when he thinks of John. Not the life with him, no. That was a foolish daydream, and even when he was young, Alexander knew that.

But perhaps he would have been able to have a happy life with Eliza. He wouldn’t have turned to this, a pathetic string of extramarital affairs and late nights and a strained marriage. Perhaps he could have found a way to truly love her, give her the doting husband she truly wanted, and deserved: someone who had the capability to want _only _her, someone who wanted to be married to her, who didn’t dream of running away, even in their honeymoon stage, while every other soldier was sending love letters to their wives back home.

Even then, a small part of him knew it wasn’t fair to her. And he’d write to her. Write the same prose and poetry that he’d whispered to Jack the night before. Though, sometimes he found himself properly inspired while writing to her. Describing the slope of her nose, the little cupid’s bow of her lips, and the softness of her hair. How he missed every inch of her so deeply, how he longed for nothing more than to be home.

Alexander wanted nothing more than to love her that way, to give her that. He wanted to be a good husband to her. He wishes he were able to keep up the facade for longer. He wanted so badly to love her that way, to kiss her with that same passion that he did Jack, to trace her face and be utterly enchanted, and find her beautiful in a way that wasn’t purely aesthetic.

And as she opens the door, and slips into bed with an apology, Alexander rolls onto his side, and hugs her around the middle. “I love you, ‘Liza.”

He can hear the smile in her voice when she replies. “I love you too, Alexander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurens will not be further delved into during the fic, but I thought bc of the comment, here's what's up in his life so that y'all don't wonder ! 
> 
> 1\. He has a wife and child, just like Alexander (Martha Laurens-Manning, and Francis Laurens)  
2\. He only stops Alex from being so irrational because he's guilty in his own life.


	5. and the lives of the people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas reminisces about his wife.

** _June 27th, 1947_ **

Hamilton is laid back on the bed this time. His hands are on Thomas’ hips, grunting with each time Thomas sinks down. It’s a fast pace, angry; like it always is. His hands are on his chest, his nails are digging into his chest now, with his teeth grit. Thomas is already done, it’s Hamilton who always takes so goddamn _ long_. But he never pushes it too far, never actually takes longer than what would feel good. Thomas wouldn’t stick around if he did. 

But Alexander finishes a little quicker this time, holding Thomas’ hips down and moaning, before pulling him up and tossing him off, onto the other side of the bed. 

Thomas laughs, “Damn, I must have been _ good _ if I made you come that fast.” He says, wiping his forehead. “Does this mean I can convince you to drop the National Security Act?” Hamilton never let him be on top, never let him be the one even a little bit in charge. Why keep up a cold front if Hamilton is giving out an olive branch? 

They’re not friends, the notion is almost laughable. But they don’t have to just sit in silence either, he supposes. 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll drop six months worth of work because your ass is just that good.” He snorts, “What next, you want me to become a Democrat next time you suck me off?” 

“That would be nice. You’d still be insufferable, don’t get me wrong, but at least the things you say wouldn’t make me want to throttle you.” 

Hamilton snorts again. “Who knew Democrats were so prone to violence? Throttling a Republican party member is very unseemly, Secretary Jefferson.”

Thomas sits up, leaning on his elbow and grinning. “Mhm, I’m sure if any radio host heard what you were saying just five seconds beforehand, he’d be inclined to agree.” And Hamilton gives a hearty laugh, one of the few genuine laughs that Thomas has ever heard from him. It’s always cold and distant with them. Sometimes Thomas wonders if that’s simply their nature, or if it’s a self made distance. 

Thomas reaches over, and takes two of his cigarettes again. Their system has yet to fail, why change the rhythm now? He offers the cigarette, and Hamilton reaches down and digs his lighter out of his pants, strewn on the floor. Thomas takes note of those scars again, and finds himself glad that he dodged the draft. Never came back traumatized, with nightmares from Combat Stress Reaction, terrified of fireworks or other loud noises. No, he was busy being an ambassador for the United States in Great Britain, and even if he were in the United States, he would’ve dodged the draft in any way he could.

Martha needed him then, She was so _ sick_, so weak, and had become bedridden. Thomas couldn't- no, _wouldn’t_ leave her. What would his fellow officials say then? _ Dearest apologies about your dying wife, but we need more slop meat for the Germans_.

No, she was so frail, and the illness had slowly taken her–

No, he couldn’t think about that right now. Hamilton was _ right _ next to him. His work rival, his fuck-buddy– God, if Hamilton of all people saw him get emotional about his _ dead wife_, Thomas wouldn’t be able to ever go back to work. He’d have to die, no going around it.

Jesus Christ, Thomas needed to reign this shit in.

Hamilton lights his cigarette, and takes a long, content drag of it, before handing that scratchy black lighter to Thomas. Thomas lights his own, before handing it back to Hamilton. He sets it on the nightstand, and waits for Thomas to finish taking his first hit, watching him with a concerning nervous expression. Hamilton was _ never _ nervous. It was like watching a falcon quail in front of a carcass after killing it. 

“Spit it out, Hamilton.” He says. “Do I have cum on my face or something?” He teases again.

“Eliza’s pregnant.” Hamilton spits it out, like just saying it burns his tongue. 

“Oh shit.” Because what else is there to say to that? His wife, who he’s _ cheating on_, is pregnant with their fourth child. “How far along is she?”

“Two months.”

“Then you can’t kn-”

“She always has morning sickness at two months. She had it with Philip, and Angie, and Junior.” 

“The fact that you expect me to know all your little brats’ names is astounding.” Thomas grumbles, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Anyways, I’m assuming you have a follow up, since I’ve never known you to say a sentence that short without one.” 

“I don’t think I can keep things as they are–” He starts, and Thomas knits his brows together, putting his hand up. Something isn’t right with this picture. Since when does Hamilton feel guilt for this?

“Now, I don’t claim to be a Hamiltonian expert by any means, but aren’t you quite infamous for abandoning ship the moment Eliza becomes pregnant?” Thomas questions. “James-”

“Of course _ Madison _told you–” 

“Stop bitching, there’s very few of us here anyways– if it hadn’t been James you slept with, I would’ve found out anyways,” he says. “He told me that you went to him every other night when she was pregnant with the third one. You made yourself scarce in that house.”

“Yes, but something’s different this time.”

_ I’m sure. _ Thomas wasn’t stupid. There was no way Hamilton could keep this up, no way that he could stay content with Eliza. Thomas knew that the man harbored no attraction to Eliza, as awful as it was to say. As much as he wanted to lie to himself, and everyone around him about the fact, Hamilton simply did not want his wife. But Thomas would never buy into that bullshit. He knew what Hamilton wanted. Hamilton wanted other men, he shied away from women when it came to his true intentions.

Sure, he charmed them and toyed with their feelings and let them believe that he found them pretty and inviting, but he knew the truth. Not a single one of Hamilton’s trysts had been with another woman. If it had, everyone in their little circle would have known. But Alexander had not, and just lied to himself, just like he always did.

Thomas sort of pitied him.

“So, was this supposed to be a parting gift, then?” Thomas says, and it’s a little bit less prodding this time. It would be a nice one, if it was, but Hamilton seems to balk at the suggestion. 

“No, not that, either.” He says insistently, and Thomas has to hold back an incredulous laugh. Of _course_ not. Of course he doesn’t want that either. He doesn’t want what he’s about to propose, and Thomas can almost predict that false promise coming out of Alexander’s mouth. Sometimes Thomas wonders if the man can do anything besides lie. Lies to himself, to his wife, to the people, and now, to Thomas.

In a terrible way, it’s Thomas who knows him best. Thomas can see his deepest faults, and holds his greatest secrets. It’s the most perverse sort of closeness, the mockery of intimacy that they share. Thomas wonders if Hamilton’s trying to find the genuine version. Not in Thomas, of course not, but in his wife. And with each failure, he’s becoming more and more desperate. Part of him wants the poor bastard to get it. So that maybe he’ll just stop, be at peace for once, stop fucking with everyone else, figuratively and literally. 

But he won’t. Not ever.

Thomas looks in his direction. “I assume you have another suggestion, then.”

“I’m proposing we just… meet up less. I have to take care of her until her family gets here and starts taking up the entire house.” He says. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking about it. Her.” He says, and it’s so lost for a man who speaks about every single damn topic like he’s an expert on it.

“Is that what you want? To dote on her and play an elaborate game of house?” Thomas pries.

“It’s not a game of house. I truly do care for her, Jefferson.” 

“I know you do. You care for her in the same way you care for a family member, or a dear friend. But you do realize, you can’t just say you care for her without showing it.” As if trying to help guide him towards some sort of better understanding, or maybe the right choice.

Though, Thomas is sort of lost on what exactly that is. Hamilton _ is _ right, in some fucked up way. They can’t keep this up, but what would be the alternative? Hamilton in an unfulfilling marriage, or Eliza in the same situation? 

He feels bad for Eliza. To be locked in a marriage, with three children, to a man who doesn’t give her any sort of attention. Thomas, for all his faults in the department of heterosexuality, was still able to find some sort of solace in women, where Hamilton was not. Part of it was ironic, with die-hard republican Alexander being unable to perform with women where Thomas could. Eliza could never be what Alexander wanted, try as she might, and Thomas was caught between passively pitying her and wanting her to wake up and realize that Hamilton would always continue his little extramarital trysts with men. Or, just wake up and find someone _ better_. He’s sure that Philip Schuyler would cover the divorce and the press easily if they divorced.

Or maybe she should find her own boyfriend. 

That idea made him want to laugh. Eliza Schuyler, as stupidly loyal as she is, finding another partner. No, that poor woman is tied to Hamilton; and _ in love _ with him, God knows why. She loves him so much, that whenever she visits work, he can see it in her eyes. She lights up when she sees Hamilton. Hamilton’s reciprocation was a well done act, but an act nonetheless. Maybe it’s for the best that Eliza doesn’t know. She doesn’t have to suffer with the knowledge.

“That’s not true.” Hamilton pipes up. 

“If that’s what you want to say.” Thomas says carelessly, taking another pull of the cigarette.

Another few awkward moments pass. 

“I would think three kids is plenty, you know.” Thomas hums. “Martha and I stopped at two.”

Hamilton lets out an exasperated laugh. “Believe me, we weren’t trying.” 

Thomas hums. “Neither were we.” He shrugs, “Yet, here they are.” 

“What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t know, I’m just thinking out loud. You do that quite a bit, and you don’t see me questioning you.” 

Hamilton huffs. 

It’s quiet again. Thomas tries to reach out again, though. He doesn’t know why; maybe it was that fear in Hamilton’s expression. A fear that Thomas had never seen before. “You know, it’ll work itself out. And not in that platitude sort of way, but it genuinely will work out, Alexander.” And there’s an odd gentleness to saying his first name, it changes the atmosphere from just pillow talk to something bordering on intimate.

“And here I thought I was a vile rat to you.” He says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Rats are very resourceful. And they’re prone to having many children. I think it’s applicable.” 

Hamilton lets out a breathy laugh. “Fair enough.”

They finish their smoke, as is their habit, and Hamilton starts to dress again, as is their habit. But something feels off about the whole situation. Like it’s a mockery of their usual schedule, more performance than actual habit passing through. The weird sentimentality that Thomas offered Hamilton, that hadn’t quite been there before. It’s uncomfortably silent now.

Hamilton is dressed again, with Thomas purposefully _ not _ watching. He tugs on his house robe again, covering himself once Hamilton is dressed. They walk to the front door, and there’s another moment of uncomfortable eye contact, as Hamilton stands at his doorway. Hamilton bites his cracked bottom lip, tucking a loose strand of sweat-damp hair behind his ear. “Don’t call me by my first name ever again, Jefferson.” He says. ”Don’t make this more than it is.” 

Thomas frowns. “I was only trying to help, Hamilton.” _ You looked pretty shaken up_. “And it clearly didn’t bother you until now.”

“Just don’t do it again.” 

He watches Hamilton slip into his car, waits for the car to start, and watches him drive off. He’s never done that before, but he finds himself more than a little bit concerned for his-much as he loathes the word, more so when describing _Hamilton_ of all people- paramour. How would he truly fare?

Thomas shakes his head, and closes the door. 

He undoes his house robe, and lays back on his luxuriant bed. It’ll be the maid’s job to clean it anyways, and she never asks questions. Nobody ever does.

Perhaps that’s why people like Hamilton are drawn to Thomas. There’s no questions, nobody around to pry and suspect. Everyone just doesn’t want to know. Perhaps it’s because of Martha. They never want to ask what he’s done since her passing.

_ Martha_.

She changed him. Saved him. God, he spent years chasing pathetically after men like Hamilton, sleeping with countless lovers, all other members of the aristocracy who shared his _ proclivities_. But it didn’t stop there, especially not in his youth. He’d then drowned himself in gay houses and speakeasies that definitely did not belong to upper class southerners, and it all became a dimly lit mess that he only half remembers.

It was without feelings– after all, how could someone fall in love when things were as dangerous as they were? To fall in love was to put yourself at risk, to put your lover at risk, if or when someone caught the two of you. Be it from letters or being walked in on.

It had all been after his mother had died, and that was a mess that Thomas was simply unwilling to think about. No, he had to think of something else. _ Someone _ else. God forbid he wake up from a fucking nightmare, as if he wasn’t a grown man. Sitting up in a cold sweat at the thought of her.

Martha, though. He knows he’s already thought it, but she really did _ save _ him. She loved him. God, sometimes Thomas wondered if she was truly human, or if she was just an unlucky guardian angel who was sent down to properly intervene with him, because he was such a _ mess_. All he did for years was study and fuck, because what else was there to do?

But when she came, it wasn’t just the safety that allowed him to love her. No, she was so gentle, too. Thomas never had to try. Never had to make himself what he wasn’t for her. They never lied to one another. They fit perfectly. 

Thomas pulls his bonnet over his hair, and props up their wedding photograph back up. He couldn’t keep it up, the image of his wife watching him do what he did with Hamilton. His Martha. 

_September 4th, 1939_

Thomas had walked in on her just… reading. Martha always liked to read. She was just as quiet as he was, but without his inclination to become boisterous whenever he was talked over. No, she was always quiet. She listened more than she spoke, something Thomas could never say for himself. He was too prideful, even then.

Thomas had woken to an empty bedroom. He’d thought she’d gone out to get groceries, but he found her out on the couch. Thomas followed her lead, pulling his book off the coffee table. 

Thomas sank onto the couch, and rested his head in her lap. She moved her book onto the arm of the sofa, and soon her hand was in Thomas’ hair. Just stroking. She never tried to run her fingers through it– she’d figured it out rather quickly that doing so would only result in painful yanking. So she would just lightly pet. And they read for God knows how long, just… in sync. Perhaps not always, but on days like these, life didn’t seem so unbearable. 

The girls had just been sent off to school, a terrifying two hour drive away from home, and they wouldn’t be coming back until Friday evening.

As he thought on it, Martha seemed to have caught him. “They are fine. The school can call us, you know.” Thomas blinked up at her.

“You know I worry about them.” 

“I know you do.” She’d said gently, hand still in his hair, before finally looking away from her book. “But they are fine.”

  
“Remember how I didn’t want kids? Look at me now.” 

“Yes, and for a ridiculous reason.” She’d chided. 

“It isn’t so ridiculous. What if it happens? What if, by committing the grave sin of being their father, I’ve damned them to being like me? To having my same interests, and they end up unhappy?” Thomas said, having laid his book on his chest. “What if I’ve ruined them, Martha? Patsy’s already twelve, and Polly’s turning ten in two weeks.” 

“What if they’re not unhappy?” Martha hummed, marking her page and then closing her book. “And so what if they end up like you? You’re happy, aren’t you?” She’d said.

“Of course I am, but I have you.” 

“Who’s to say they won’t find somebody, then?” 

“But I want them to be safe.”

“And I trust you to protect them.” 

_ I’m nobody’s protector, least of all theirs_. Always lacking in his manhood. Every spoken word on how men were supposed to lead, to be strong, always seemed to phase right through Thomas. A pathetic, _ weak _ excuse for a man. Even Martha was more stoic than he was.

“That’s rather bold of you. I thought I was always the sentimental one.” Thomas had teased. “Wasn’t I the one who cried the night before they left?” 

Martha smiled then. “And because you cry that means that you can’t protect them?” She’d said.

“It shows a predisposition to weakness, yes. You didn’t cry.”

“Maybe not, but I’m hardly in a position to be protecting the girls. After all, which of us can reach the ceiling in most apartments?” 

“Looking intimidating doesn’t mean I can protect them. At their last school, you scared Mrs. Williams so badly that she wanted to shit herself, if she ate enough to be physically capable of doing so.” Thomas looked up at her, frowning now, with his bottom lip popped out. “And all I did was stand like an oaf in the background.”

“Yes, but you’re _ my _ oaf, bunny.” She’d teased. He’d always jokingly loathed the nickname– bunny implied a cowardice within him that he was never particularly fond of. But coming from her lips, it was never condescending. It never implied that he was less than. _ She _ never implied that he was less than. 

Even when he sat her down, when he told her what he was. Jesus Christ, almost fourteen years ago.

Then, even while knowing how many men were like him, it felt like some sort of sickness. And if he married her without at least telling her what he was, he’d be spreading that sickness to her. He was disgusting. How many men were truly like him, in that big wide world outside of those gay houses? How many men had so many partners, and had never even had a love to back it up? It seemed more like a fetish to him with each passing day. 

She’d simply asked what attracted him. If he had a lover. If he truly loved her, or if he needed someone to hide his true feelings.

Thomas loved her more than anything. “If I’m the bunny, does that make you a wolf?”

“Definitely, but a runt wolf.” She said. “After all, Patsy’s already past my height, and I think Polly’s on her way after her.”

Thomas snorted, and Martha had gently slipped out from under his head. “Come now, absurdly tall rabbit, and help me make breakfast? We finally ran out of pancake batter, and the maid won’t be in until noon.” 

Thomas sat up, and he’d followed her. He’d trotted after Martha, and as she bustled in the kitchen, Thomas worked in sync with her. It was something so _ simple_, just making an omelette, but it was just so easy. Nothing had mattered aside from making the omelette, and _did you want mushrooms, or peppers, or ham in it?_

_Yes, no, no._

Thomas had been the one to cook it, because he’s the only one who knows how to flip it– it was always that way, even when they were making pancakes for the girls. Thomas would get called over, and be asked to do it for Martha. But she didn’t need to ask, he always knew what he was being called over for at that time in the morning. 

Martha smiled that big, wide smile of hers as she let Thomas handle the cooking portion of it all, with her arms just wrapped tightly around his waist, and her forehead rested easily in between Thomas’ shoulder blades. Just a warm body that Thomas felt safe around. Someone who loved him, and who he loved in turn.

_November 19th, 1943_

Thomas groaned, arching his back as John finally pulled out, hand in between Thomas’ shoulder blades and shoving him down against the mattress. Thomas felt cum hit, then drip down along his back. John was never rough– he and Thomas were friends. And no amount of guilt ever made him push Thomas away.

Perhaps the fault was on Thomas, for always looking for men like this. Men who keep him secret, and feel guilt each time they sleep with him.

Martha had always fussed whenever he recounted the stories about it. And it only took a year after she was gone for him to go back to those old ways. 

And he knew that it would kill her, wherever she was, to see him that way. Back to using sex to cope with _ whatever _ it was that burned in the back of his head whenever he was alone.

Sixteen years. Sixteen years together, and then she was gone.

And it only took a year, a year after moving out of their beloved little French townhouse, for Thomas to find another one, much smaller and now, without her to decorate, it was barren. Only a year for Thomas to crawl into his friend’s arms and his bed, because his own felt too empty, and what would he do alone? 

Most days, he was glad that the girls were away at school during the week. They weren’t around to see their father spiraling. They had taken to that, too. No longer calling him Dad, or Papa in Patsy’s case. She’d taken to her mother’s Spanish far better than Polly had, who had vastly preferred Thomas’ French. Mostly because she couldn’t roll her r’s the way Polly and Martha could.

Thomas slowly slid his legs down after John pulled out, laying on his stomach. He felt rather pathetic at the moment, thinking of his dead wife now. That was his own fault. 

“Anyone in there?” John piped up, looking at the mass of coils that covered Thomas’ face. 

“Call at another time, Mister Adams.” He said, trying to mask the hurt.

“Shit– did I hurt you? I thought I used enough lu–”

“You’re fine.” Thomas said, finally revealing his face. He was crying again. Why he was prone to it, he didn’t know, but what he did know was that he loathed it. “I was thinking about Martha.” He said. 

“I’m sorry, Thomas.” John said. “I know things have been rough since you lost her.” 

“That doesn’t begin to cover it.” Thomas rolled onto his back, and laughed. A bitter laugh, one done to avoid crying more. “You know, Patsy calls me Father now. Like it’s somehow my fault that Martha died.” 

“I don’t think that’s what she thinks–”

“No, Patsy’s just fucking like me. She’s so spiteful and she _hates me_, because why can’t mom be here? She doesn’t want her cowardly father lingering over her like a sad shadow.” 

John was quiet then. “Do you want to be alone?” Because what else could he say to Thomas having a mental breakdown about Martha, and his two daughters? John was never prepared for this sort of thing–- he was always accustomed to simply being too boisterous to have to deal with his emotions. He lacked Martha’s natural instinct to pull Thomas out of his shell. He never had that sort of tact. His wife was much like Martha, but she wasn’t quiet, either. No, Abby always made her presence known, much like her husband. Thomas and Martha balanced out a bit more than John and Abigail, though. They were different enough to ground one another, where John and Abigail simply encouraged each ikother’s unruliness. 098

“No, God no. Don’t leave.” Thomas said. Neither of them had anywhere to go, and if he was left alone without even a task to be done, Thomas was sure he’d drive himself crazy. “Stay the night with me, please.” He said.

“Thomas–”

“I haven’t been able to sleep since she died, John. The bed is so _ cold _ and I wake up in the middle of the night, like she went to go use the bathroom or something.” Thomas said.

John looks like he’s debating it. Thomas wonders why he _does_ this. Deals with these men who don’t love him, would _never_ love him. Perhaps it’s some sort of sick confirmation bias; his only love was in the ground.

“Just tonight, alright?”

“I know.” 

When Thomas woke up, it was a little bit after sunrise. 

And John was gone.

_June 27th, 1947_

Thomas laid in bed now, curled up around his own pillow. 

He misses Martha so much. 

Some days, he dares to wish they’d never met. After all, how else would he have known what genuine love would feel like? And now, he wouldn’t have to hold it up against a cheap… well, not even an imitation. 

Thomas did still wonder why he did this to himself– subjected himself to men who still wanted to play the game of being fully, without a doubt, heterosexual. Lying to themselves and their miserable wives. Perhaps it was just what he thought all those years ago. A confirmation bias, that nobody would love someone like him– after all, how many men like him had actually had a lover, and if then, actually managed to keep them?

No, Thomas would never have anyone after Martha. He would never allow anyone that sort of closeness, or open himself to the haze that he spent almost three years in, consumed with grief and only able to piece him together for two days at a time before his daughters were driven back off to their boarding school. To be unable to even take care of himself until the maid tentatively suggested he take a shower.

If he put himself through that again, Thomas wasn’t sure he’d make it out.

He wipes the unnecessary, and frankly, unwanted tears from his cheeks. Those damn things, always infringing upon him. His sensitivity would kill him, his father would always say.

Now that he was starting to worry over _Hamilton _of all people, Thomas was starting to give some credence to what his father had said. 

In truth, he couldn’t chalk it up to sentimentality. He worried for the man sometimes. It felt like Thomas was just waiting for the ball to drop on him, for Hamilton to finally let go of all the pretenses– how long had he been doing this?

At least, Thomas never lied to his wife, and to himself. He never told his lovers that he was just straight. No, that was their job. To be emotionally unavailable, so that Thomas could easily subject himself to his own sort of torture. 

He turns on the lamp and puts on his glasses getting up from the bed. He sighs and finds himself looking at his bag, thrown on his desk haphazardly as Hamilton had cornered him into the bedroom, pushing him down on the bed.

He opened it, and found the manila folder full of Hamilton’s arguments for his damned National Security Act. If Thomas never heard those string of words put together again, it would be too soon. With the way that bastard yaps on about it, you’d think he’d finally gone crazy. But at the moment, Thomas can’t bear to even look at his bookshelf; he knows where his eyes will go. Straight to that age worn book, and he’ll crack it open again, and end up precisely where he started. Miserable and unable to sleep.

Thomas makes his way back onto his bed, and cracks open the manila folder. With it, an argument for the National Security Act, that’s about fifty pages long. 

Part of Thomas wishes he just had company for the night; not that he’d find it with Hamilton. The man’s writing would simply have to substitute for genuine company, because it was just as long winded and irritating as he himself was. Besides, it’s not as though he would actually agree to it if Thomas asked.

No, he’d leave Thomas and his swallowed pride just as lonely as before. 

And on days like this, all Thomas had was his pride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil bit of notes here on what's up!
> 
> 1\. Patsy is Martha Jefferson II, and Polly is Mary Jefferson  
2\. Yes, Martha Jefferson I is latina in my fancast, with her Face Claim being Yalitza Aparicio bc height difference :P (going off on that thomas is like 6'5 in this fic)  
3\. John Adams' F.C. is Eddie Spears, and the Abigail in question is his wife.


	6. somebody who survives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza talks with her girlfriends.

_ June 31st, 1947 _

Perhaps it was sneaky and incorrect of Eliza to wait for Alexander and Philip to be out of the house before talking to her friends. The guilt of talking about her husband behind his back claws at her gut and at the back of her mind, as if airing out her frustrations is somehow worse than Alexander being the source of them. After all, how dare she not faithfully allow him to crumple her up and toss her out like a piece of trash? 

She does know that this is a spiteful thing to do, to think; however, she feels the slightest bit wronged. And is it the worst thing in the world to just talk about it? How is it her fault that he’s not putting the effort into their marriage, and she’s dissatisfied because of it?

Technically speaking, Eliza knows better than to speak to her girlfriends about her marriage troubles. It would be far too easy for one of them to tell their husbands, who would in turn tell Alexander. No, the fear was not of her husband; at least, not of his fury. Alexander had never directed his rage at her. His disappointment was something much more gutting to Eliza, though, and he knew that. Sometimes, Eliza wonders if he only does that with her, because he knows that being angry wouldn’t accomplish even half of the work that being simply sad would.

But that was secondary to the fear of tabloids, of political vultures sinking their teeth into his and Eliza’s marriage, hissing about a lack of _ traditional values _ in the Hamilton household, despite what he preaches.

She couldn’t do that to Alexander, either. Putting his career under fire would harm them both, but it kills Alexander more. The slightest bit of slander always upsets him, insults his honor. Eliza finds it endearing, sometimes– but those times are when he ends up plopping on the couch beside her and hugs her around the middle, huffing something about how _ Monroe or Jefferson is surely behind this, _while Eliza just pets his hair and laughs. But she does like Alexander calmer, most of the time.

So here she was, toeing the line of who to confess to, aside from the local priest. 

She looks down at the notebook, at the phone numbers written down. Perhaps it would be best to bring it up in a group setting, make it more easily forgotten. After all, didn’t all of them bring up their husbands and their incompetence all the time? Why would it be different for Eliza?

Eliza wants to be out of this chapter of their marriage so badly so that she can forget it, just like her girlfriends would. She wants that damned Security Act to be _ passed _already, so that she could continue her life.

  
But that spiteful part of her brain that she hadn’t realized was there before speaks again.

_ Maybe it’s not the National Security Act. _

_ Maybe it’s another woman. Alexander does have wandering eyes. _

Eliza shakes the thoughts out of her head. Alexander wouldn’t do that. He had wandering eyes, yes, but Eliza had never even seen him spend more than a few minutes alone with another woman, unaccompanied. He never strayed from her side.

_ Then why make you suffer through late nights? Why push away the whole family? _

Eliza doesn’t understand her husband most days, much as she would like to. She wishes that she had some means to read his mind, understand what was going _ on _ . Maybe grasp what was going on beyond confusion, grasp his frustration with her. She just wanted to understand _ why _ he was no longer happy with her, and what she had done wrong in his eyes. She had been stupid enough to believe she did everything right. 

But Eliza is also rather tired of wallowing. She dials the Livingston house number, and Kitty picks up worryingly quick. “Betty, what prompted the call?” She says, and Eliza hears children bickering in the background. She leans against the wall, looking at Angelica trot outside, chasing Constantine. Lucy stays faithfully at her feet, laying against the cool hardwood in the hot weather. 

“Kitty, darling, I just realized we haven’t gotten together in almost a month.” She says sweetly, curling the phone cord around her hand. “Well, none of us have. And Alexander is out of the house most days– and I assume the same for Matthew.” Eliza says, “I suppose I just miss company. The kids don’t make for terribly good conversation.” Eliza says, giving a breathy laugh that she hopes doesn’t give away her desperation for companionship. 

“Oh, of course, sugar.” Kitty said through the phone. “Are you inviting everybody, or just me?” 

“Everybody is coming, I hope. I haven’t called the others yet. I’ll let you know.” Eliza said. “And bring your little one. I don’t want Angie bothering us for attention.” She says. 

Eliza bears through three more of those unbearable conversations, playing the sweet coquettish wife that Alexander had always wanted, and that she had learned to play unsettlingly well. She nearly feels dizzy after calling them all. Repeating the same dialogue, answering the same questions. If not for their names, they would all be the same. _ Sarah, lovely; Mary, sugar; Rebecca, sweetheart. _All coaxing and unbearable. 

She is half tempted to invite Mrs. Morris, or Mrs. Pickering, just to have something akin to entertainment as the five of them bickered backhandedly among each other, with the much older wives nitpicking at the women that were Eliza’s age, while the younger women snidely commented on their age.

But Eliza, despite her boredom in the monotony of her life, does not want to hear Mrs. Morris comments on her marriage and Eliza’s child-rearing skills, or lack thereof. Nor does she want to hear Kitty– who is decidedly the most vocal of their group– ask _ why _ she brought those two old broads to their happy get-together. 

Eliza looks out at the backyard, and Angie is in knee-deep in her coveralls in the mud. She’ll have to change her, at least, into a clean set. One pretty and pink as opposed to Pip’s hand-me-down ones, which she seemed to vastly prefer to her new ones. Whether it was simply the phase of hating all things pretty, or a comfort issue she couldn’t properly voice yet, Eliza couldn’t tell. Either way, she refused to be a reason to be the talk of all the other ladies, with a boyish daughter. 

And then she would change her back into her denim, and let her keep at her mud-potions that she always rambles to Eliza about.

Eliza sets the unused cookie dough onto the tray, not even bothering to pre-heat and just hoping it comes out fine, because she’s already cutting it a little close, with only an hour to prepare. To do her hair nicely, and change, and do her makeup, and then change Angelica. That last chore alone could take up to ten minutes, with the way Angelica screeches when she’s changed into decent clothes.

At the very least, she had a few little sandwiches in the fridge. And tea could be made quickly. 

_ 11:52 _

Eliza stares at her made face in the mirror. Her unfashionably long hair had been crimped into a bob. She had managed to convince Angelica to change without a fuss with the promise of three cookies instead of two. And she’d changed into a flattering blue day gown, all on her own. And in under an hour. 

The tea was boiling. What a domestic scene.

All that was to be done was to apply her lipstick. And how long did that take, really? Just smearing pigment onto her lips. Most days she was told she didn’t even need it. She had what most women wanted. Wasn’t she so perfect?

Eliza tilts her head, staring at her own face. She cups her own face, an imitation of intimacy. What was the point of this? Why did she have to appear more than she was? What was she trying to accomplish– what were _ any _ of them trying to accomplish? Was it to show that their youth was still just as intact as it was before their husbands came into the picture, or simply showing one another up?

She wonders why they must show one another up. Wasn’t all of this, these little group meetings, an attempt at a respite from the demands of their devastatingly lonely inner-lives?

Eliza focuses back at her vanity mirror. What was the point of spending all her money on pigment and tools that only served to obstruct her true face? After all, what was wrong with her face, with any of their faces? She had seen Kitty’s bare face as she sobbed into her arms, weeping as she described the much younger waif that Matthew had managed to get his hands on. Nothing was wrong with it then. 

Eliza dips her brush into the pigment, and brushes it on her bottom lip, pressing it up against the top. And as she dips her brush in a second time, just to get the rosiness in properly, the door rings. Surely Kitty– she was always early to a fault. 

“Coming!” She calls, and gives another swipe to her bottom lip. She caps the pigment, and puts the brush back into her makeup bag, brushing her skirt down before rushing to the door. 

She thankfully finds Angelica still clean, just nibbling at the extra cookie that Eliza promised her. 

As she opens it, Susannah rushes in, crying out for Angelica. Kitty calls out for her daughter, but Susannah just turns around and shouts. “Hello, Mrs. Hamilton!” With about as much eloquence as one could expect from a three year old. 

Kitty gives a loving, chagrined grin as she shuts the door. “I’m sorry about her. She’s having an… _ energetic _ phase, shall we say.” She says, tucking her hair behind her ear. Before leaning back and smiling. “Oh, Betty, it’s been _ far _ too long.” She cooes, and Eliza lets out an affectionate _ oh, Kitty! _Before sweeping her up into a hug. 

“For certain.” She says, her head on Kitty’s shoulder. “I missed you so dearly.” Eliza hums as they part, then remembers all the food. “Oh! I nearly forgot about the snacks!” Eliza says, oh so quaintly. “If my head weren’t attached to me, I’d surely forget it.” She mumbles as she pulls the kettle off the stove. 

Kitty chuckles, and helps her unwrap the sandwiches. “I don’t blame you– with three children, I swear, I don’t know how you manage.” She says. “Especially with that Alexander of yours. That man is a total oaf when it comes to any sort of house labor, I can only imagine.” She chuckles. “At least Matthew entertains me.”

Eliza returns the laugh, but it comes out much drier than she had hoped. “When he’s not working, Alexander can be a big help.” She says. “Without him, I feel a little overwhelmed, actually.” And the worst of it, is the fact that she’s not lying. She’s seen Alexander with the children. He can be sweet, and tender and attentive. He cooks, sometimes. He even puts them all to sleep, some nights.

Perhaps that’s why it bothers Eliza so much that he’s no longer helping, even with his own children. 

“Oh.” Kitty says. Eliza knows she doesn’t mean it with any sort of malice, but her shock cuts something deep in Eliza.

“Anyways,” Eliza says cheerily. “At least Angelica can be entertained by mud and leaves.” She says, watching the two girls debate something about their shared fantasy world. “And Constantine makes a wonderful substitute for Alexander.” Eliza teases, pointing at their Spaniel, who’s draped comfortably on the ground beside Lucy. 

Kitty snorts at that. “I’m sure. He’s probably the one thing keeping this house from being a muddy hell-scape.” She says.

“For certain.” Eliza says. 

The other women arrive, and Eliza drops her more snappish attitude, as she always does around them. Not everybody was Kitty, and worthy of the trust needed to hear Eliza say something that went beyond the constraints of her sweet reputation. Not everybody could be Kitty, either, with her loud mouth and tendency towards being in charge.

Eliza knew she was no Kitty.

She presses her cheek against Mary, Sarah, and Rebecca’s cheeks. They all smile and say their default greetings, with Rebecca bringing wine for them to split among themselves. 

_ 12:45 _

Sarah giggles over her Moscato, her legs crossed. She’s the first one to bring it up, as the children finally lull to sleep. “You know, I was going to be a nurse.” She says. “But my parents wanted grandchildren.” She hums, divulging more than one would usually expect. “And there was no reason. We didn’t really need the money.” She sighs. “What were you gals gonna be before our _'__husbands'_ managed to convince us out of it?”

Mary gulps down her wine. “Social worker.” 

A few _oo’s_ rise from the congregation. “Why?” Rebecca asks. The questions don’t need to be explicitly asked.

“I wanted to help people. I worked at a lot of soup kitchens during the Depression.” She says. “Since, you know, whole philanthropist father and whatnot.” She twirls her hand. “But you know, my mother was worried about me becoming a spinster aunt and never having any children.” She stares down at the base of her glass. “And it was her final wish, you know. So I found myself a nice husband who had a nice political career ahead of him.” She shrugs. “Rufus is nice, though. He’s good.”

What a bleak revelation from their youngest member. Truly, there was no hope, even for the younger generation.

It turns silent as they all contemplate it. “I was going to be an actress.” Kitty says, and the other women burst into giggles. Even Eliza chuckles a little. 

“I’m serious.” Kitty says. “I was going to be on Broadway.” She continues. “And I was going to be in the cinema. I had real potential, you know.” She licks her lips. “But my father forbade it.” The reason why was not something that was required. 

Acting was a whore’s profession. Second only to being an _actual_ prostitute.

Eliza gently hands over her glass as Kitty finishes her last gulp of her cup. 

“And I met Matthew anyways. It was just how things played out.” But it’s clear that Kitty is not truly happy with her position. 

Eliza wonders if any of them are. If the happy moments in everyone’s marriage are simply them forcing themselves to look at the bright side of things. After all, how else are you meant to love the beast who sleeps beside you every night? The man who took away your personhood, who represents the very death of anything you dared to hope for yourself? 

How else are you meant to stay sane within your gilded cage?

Rebecca is the oldest among them, and when it’s her turn, she simply shrugs. A decimated shrug. “I never considered another option. I graduated high school, and I got married a week after my graduation.” She says. “I just hoped for the best.” 

Eliza swallows. “I was going to be a teacher.” She says. “I was going to school for it; Alexander was letting me.” She explains, and that alone would have been more than most husbands allowed their wives. “But he was drafted, you know.” And her dreams became secondary to factory work. Food was more important, especially when Philip came around. “So I dropped that.” She looks around at her children, one asleep in his crib, and the other napping on the rug with her friends’ little ones. “And now I’m far too old to pursue it.” She says good-naturedly. “And besides, I can’t leave the little ones right now.” 

“Nonsense, Libby, you’re fresher than half of us old broads.” Teases Rebecca. Trying to bring some sort of joy back to this somber conversation.

Kitty chuckles, “Perhaps you, Becky, but I know I’m fresh as morning dew.” She pats her hair. “Not that you aren’t, Betty, but you can clearly see me.” She says teasingly. 

Eliza chuckles, and wonders if the sudden shift in conversation is their way out of truly thinking about their situation. Nobody wants to deal with that truly unpleasant silence. As they think about what could have been their lives.

Eliza’s doing a lot of wondering these days, and she wonders if she even wants it. All it does is make her chest ache and tighten with a longing for something that she can’t pinpoint.

Well, she can pinpoint it. But she doesn’t want to.

_ 01:04 _

Eliza finds herself a little emboldened by the wine and the gossip. The children are all playing together, or napping, in the case of the younger ones. 

She takes another sip, and as the conversation falls into a lull, Eliza dares to say it. “I’m worried about my marriage.” 

The conversation is no longer in a lull, but in a tense silence. Kitty’s eyes widen– almost comically so, but she seems more interested, where Sarah’s face tightens into an uncomfortable pursed expression. Rebecca simply turns silent, and Mary takes a rather impressive gulp of her wine. 

“Why do you say that, Libby?” Says Sarah. Her voice is terse, speaking as though they’re discussing something scandalous. Which they are.

“Alexander comes home late every night.” She starts. “I go to sleep alone most days, and some nights he comes home at three in the morning, and he takes a shower right after coming home.” She says. “When he’s here during the day, he’s like a ghost. He avoids me and the children like the plague, and–” 

All four of her friends sit silently, so still one might think that they were cardboard stands.

Eliza looks blankly down at her lap. “And I think he might be cheating on me.” She whispers. “But I’ve never seen him with another woman, or seen a phone number out of place.” 

She looks back up at them, “I feel like I’m going crazy. He tells me he loves me, but he’s always gone.” 

Kitty puts her arm around Eliza’s shoulders, and gently pulls her into a hug. Eliza doesn’t cry. She can’t find it in herself, not in front of all of them. She can’t bring out that vulnerability. So she just sits there, blankly staring in between Rebecca and Mary. 

Rebecca’s face is tight again, as if the situation is very familiar for her. “I’m sure it’s just the workload, darling. You know how Washington is.” They all murmur their agreement. “Especially with that pest, Jefferson, trying to block our husbands from getting their work done. Those Democrats and their big mouths, always making the process harder than they need to be.”

Eliza’s eyes focus again, on that uncomfortable face. “You’re probably right, Becky.” She says quietly. “He’s always done late nights.”

“Exactly. And taking care of the children on your own must just be taxing for you, mentally.” Rebecca chimes in. “Might be the cause for worry.”

For once, Kitty is silent, just rubbing at Eliza’s bicep. Eliza nods. “Yes, of course.” She says blandly. Now would be _far_ too late for Eliza to bring up the other _little issue_ in their marriage. The little issue growing inside her right now. No, they would treat it as cause for celebration, or just give their half-hearted reassurances.

Even if Alexander came back from the National Security Act, he would be gone again.

Eliza wonders if what Rebecca is telling her is what she tells herself. When her husband comes home, smelling of something unspeakable, she just tells herself it’s late nights at the office. Because what would she do? Confront him?

The thought makes Eliza want to laugh, and then she’s suddenly filled with the urge to cry. A cry that would not be sated by a few quick tears in front of her girlfriends. No, a primal one. 

She knows none of them ever would. And what option was left to them, aside from quietly taking it with a graceful smile? It was either that, or start a national scandal with a divorce. No, bearing it was always the better option. That was all they were allowed to do. To take, and take, and take, and _ take _ until there was nothing more that their husbands could do to them, and they were allowed the peace of a boring monotony, rather than one that picked at their humanity.

Eliza wants to pick at their men’s brains and see what allows them all to do this, to look at their miserable wives and simply not notice. Or worse, not care.

She smiles, a tight smile, a mirror image to Rebecca. “I just hope that damned National Security Act gets passed, then.” 

_ 3:00 _

The house is empty, and Eliza stares at the doctor’s note confirming her pregnancy, prescriptions for her usual prenatals, and the list of things to avoid.

The reminder of the fact that having children was crucial to the post-war effort, with statistics on the declined birthrate during the war years. 

_ Take, take, take. _But Eliza couldn’t give anymore.

Eliza allows the sobs to wrack through her body, guttural cries that hurt her ribcage when they push out. The sort that leaves tiny red pin pricks on your forehead and chin. Ruining her delicately applied makeup.

Eliza hunches over, and allows herself one moment of grief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kitty refers to Kitty Livingston, and Susannah refers to her only child and daughter! F.C. for Kitty is Lucy Liu, if ur interested in knowing that !  
1.5. Matthew refers to Matthew Ridley, Kitty's husband !  
2\. Mary is Mary Alsop King, Rufus King's wife. F.C. is Neelam Gill  
3\. Sarah Jay refers to John Jay's wife. F.C. is Zoe Saldana  
4\. Rebecca is Rebecca Pickering, Timothy Pickering's wife ! F.C. is Lisa Bonet  
5\. I've meshed their ages a little bit to be closer, and I chose them at random! There are a few other Sarah's/Mary's that are wives of Federalists, but they won't be here for a while !


	7. there's no telling what you'll do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snapshot of Alexander in 1945.

_ September 26th, 1945 _

“The point that I’m trying to make is that Russia is already a danger to the rest of the world, Stalin is already going to close in on Germany…”

Knox is still talking, Jesus Christ. Alexander is frankly, tired of the war talk. 

He wishes the president and his Cabinet would just celebrate that they won and give the fuck up. Ever since Normandy, since _ Jack _ , he’d come to find that the art of war and her glories no longer piqued Alexander’s interest. It swayed him away from it– combat death is very different from a normal, peaceful passing. Even his mother’s death paled in comparison to that of strangers– young men who Alexander didn’t even really _ know _– watching their eyes widen and then go hollow, before falling limp onto the dirty, blood-covered ground.

At least Knox had kept his word after it all. He put in an _extremely_ good word in for Alexander, one that literally put him in the President’s cabinet, which is no small feat. Well, that bit was just plain luck. Roosevelt’s former Secretary had dropped out just before Alexander, who has a head for numbers, popped up, and Washington seemed to like Alexander anyways, said he had something about him that made him give the job to Alexander instead of someone more experienced. Perhaps it was the fact that nobody wanted to join Washington’s cabinet– after Roosevelt, most people were worried about the position going to Washington.

Alexander was somewhat inclined to agree, despite mostly falling in line with Washington’s ideas. Mostly because hearing Washington talk about war and such is starting to grate on his nerves– especially with that condescending attempt at mentorship whenever Alexander voices his complaints.

Alexander waits for Knox to finish. “Poking our nose in international affairs again is not a good look, Mister President. Stalin getting involved in Germany and the Balkans is not our concern– it’s theirs.” Washington nods.

“We’ve been meddling too much in European affairs.” Alexander adds. Knox starts on a rebuttal, and he stands, “We have our own problems here, Knox– the birth rate has been steadily declining due to the draft.” Alexander practically throws his hands up, face turning red just from thinking too hard about it. “I’m just saying, the people are hungry, people are _ tired _ from the war. Nobody wants to throw all of our men back into another war with the Soviets, just to die again. We need to take a break.”

His eyes flick over to his left. Jay is sitting there, looking as miserable as he always does. He spots Madison, right beside Jay and watching the whole scene with that same, dry boredom that he seems to carry everywhere he goes. 

Well, except when they’re alone. Alexander swears that he’s gotten _ at least _a laugh out of him. Even if nobody believes him, least of all Jay, always insisting that he’s seen them interact, Madison can hardly stand Alexander. But Alexander knows Madison. He knows that he’s capable of being warm, even if nobody else has proof of the fact.

As Madison finally realizes that he’s looking over to him, he waits for Jay to interject, before shooting Alexander… something. It’s not a smile, exactly, just a slight turn up at the corners of his mouth. That was a risky move for him. He never even came close to showing amusement in public.

Alexander returns a little grin. His eyes flick back over to Washington, who clears his throat at him. As if _ he’s _ the only one who wasn’t paying attention. God, he couldn’t stand the president, most days. 

“Hamilton, what’s your rebuttal on Jay’s point?”

“I don’t believe I was paying attention to the bickering.” He says coolly. Of course, it was mostly to insult the President, but he was also right. This would cost them later. 

“If you have something to say, feel free to express it.” 

“I just believe that we could stabilize ourselves as an international power without trying to play footsie with the Soviet Union.” Alexander says coolly.

Knox rolls his eyes. “I do believe you weren’t listening to what I was proposing, Hamilton.”

“I was listening just fine, Knox.” A lie, but Alexander’s point still stands. “I do believe that becoming too global will cost us later on. I hope you know the consequences of what you’re doing, Knox.” And then the room starts to become louder as Alexander settles down into his seat, pleased with himself.

Alexander meets eyes with Knox, and he shoots him that same smile. Knox is still frowning, but at the grin, he seems to understand. Alexander is just testing him, testing the whole Cabinet and its spectators. 

Well, partially. He still does believe the whole thing is a joke, ut it’s still more entertaining to watch the whole Cabinet shriek about their new ingrate of a Secretary than to watch Jay and Knox drag on about the Soviet Union.

_ September 26th, 1945 _

_ 11:49 _

Alexander’s hand is sunk into Madison’s hair. The edge of the desk is digging into his ass, and he doesn’t think he’s been able to cum in far too long, especially not with Knox and Washington so far up his ass that they’re in his stomach. He groans, and pushes Madison down to the base of his dick.

Madison pulls off, and Alexander hears a heavy gulp. 

“I can’t fucking stand Washington.” Alexander sighs, sliding up and sitting on the desk. “He’s so fucking pedantic all the time.” He leans back as Madison sinks into the chair across from him. 

“I’m inclined to agree.” Madison hums, voice a little hoarse. “He’s very stubborn.” And as he settles down, “Much like you.” 

Alexander’s eyes narrow, and his frown just deepens. “I am _ nothing _ like him. He’s so condescending and pedantic–”

“You already said that.” Madison is _ smiling _ at this, at his misfortune of having to deal with Washington every single day. 

“Exacting.” He corrects. “And don’t get me wrong, I-”

  
“You love this job.” Madison interjects, that grin still on his face like he’s got the script memorized, which Alexander knows he does. “And you appreciate that Knox gave you it, but God damn, the Cabinet is just so insufferable, huh?” Madison sounds so pleased with himself. 

Alexander huffs, buckling his belt. “I’m starting to think that you just like seeing me riled up.” He says. “You know, Washington got pissed at me when _ you _ were the one who distracted me in the first place!” And Alexander hops off the desk, starting to pace like he always does. He realizes that his belt is loose around his waist as his pants start tugging down at his hips. Better to fix that up before he starts rushing home to Eliza. It would be a bit of a problem to explain why his pants are sagging.

“Maybe if you weren’t so easily distracted, the problem wouldn’t come up.” Madison points out, and Alexander’s nose wrinkles with disgust.

“I don’t understand why you always take his side whenever I talk about him, it’s like you’re fucking him instead of me.”

“First of all, he’s my second cousin on one side or another, so that’s pretty nasty of you, Hamilton.” Madison says, scooting his chair forward before leaning on the desk. “Second of all, you know I do it because I think you can do better, and you _ should _ do better. Washington is insufferable, yes, and you need to do more to not be just as insufferable and stubborn as him. I swear, whenever you two are in the same room, it’s like watching two peacocks trying to fight.” 

Alexander’s face twists up in… _ something _. “It wouldn’t kill you to take my side.”

“And it wouldn’t kill you to take my advice, and yet.” Madison hums, fingers tapping along the hardwood of the desk. 

Alexander finds himself genuinely wondering it. But knowing Madison, he knows better than to expect a straight answer, or any answer at all. Madison just had that way about him. He was just spiteful, just cunning, and he usually had his way. Why he wanted it was something that Alexander would never know. He didn’t understand why Madison wanted to fuck him, just to turn around and take Washington’s side over his, or why he kept even their platonic affections a secret from everybody else. Perhaps that was his way of staying under the radar, maintaining an image of general aloofness, especially when it came to his lovers. 

It did have its pros and cons. Alexander did like that it kept things simple, no risk of feelings, or of anyone suspecting them. But still, would it kill Madison to at least take his side in private, where there would be no one there to see?

“Your advice requires me to be polite to Washington and his Cabinet of idiots.”

“Which you are a part of.” Madison is still infuriatingly amused.

“Yes, which I am a part of, and who I am the smartest part of.” Alexander rebuffs, feeling every bit insulted.

Madison snorts. “That’s a bold statement.” He says, leaning back into his seat. “I just think you need to learn some humility, Alexander. It wouldn’t kill you to not think that you’re God’s gift to American government.”

Alexander frowns. “I don’t think that.” 

Madison stands. “No, you certainly do. It’s just that your wife and all your fellow, ass-sniffing Republican friends either don’t see it, or don’t call you out on it, so you’re unaware of the fact.” He says. “Honestly, Hamilton, I thought you were doing it on purpose, too, having a stupid wife and stupid friends to talk about how brilliant you are just to stroke your ego.”

Alexander’s face twists up. “You have an awful lot of nerve, especially from the man who was literally just sucking my dick about two minutes ago!” He says, “And call my wife stupid again, see how I take it-”

“Don’t flatter yourself with a notion of honor or genuine respect for your wife.” Madison interjects coolly. “You wouldn’t be here, kidding yourself into thinking that she believes that you’re really out here until one in the morning just sorting papers, if you thought that woman had any sort of brains inside that head of hers.”

Madison has that sort of stare in his eyes that unsettles Alexander, the sort that sees entirely too much, more than any man would ever want to be seen in him. “Though, I don’t know if that makes her the idiot, so much as it does _ you. _” He says. “Now get home, before she throws another fit and you come crawling back to me about it, and about how much you can’t stand how pregnancy makes her act.”

Alexander spends a few moments just standing there dumbly, looking down at his feet with shame and a sudden sense of self awareness of the fact that Eliza probably knew exactly what was going on, and it would just take a snap of her fingers, and Alexander’s fate as a politician would certainly be sealed.

_ The immigrant boy who cheated on his rich socialite wife. _

What a title. Alexander could see it now. _ The foreign ingrate. _Perhaps they’d even use today’s Cabinet meeting as an example of the fact. Evidence added to Eliza’s case about what an arrogant adulterer her husband was.

But Alexander couldn’t stop. He couldn’t find it in himself to find solace in his wife, in between her thighs and in her arms, in her pretty red lips or in her dark, shiny hair. In any of it. He couldn’t find beauty beyond the artistry of it. The same way one would appreciate a beautiful woman in a painting. Perfect, serene, and entirely sterile. His wife was a similar matter, one that was decidedly separate from where Alexander’s true attractions lied. Her conversation was pleasant, her eyes were warm and when the sun hit them, they lit up in a way that Alexander might recognize as pretty on somebody else. 

That he _ had _ recognized as pretty on somebody else. On different warm eyes, ones that were darker brown, or ones that were just shy of being the same color as hers. 

But Eliza was not handsome. She was pretty. She was pleasant. She was not a love, but she was… somewhere just shy of it. Somewhere neither of them wanted her to be. 

Alexander wanted a wife to love, to be infatuated with, some days. But he’d long become accustomed to the dissatisfaction, the guilt, all of it. It was almost cyclical in nature. All he could do was go home and make it up to her. Shower her in forced kisses, and massages, and reading, and even cooking for her. And when the compensation came, he would be able to fool himself into being happy, and being in love with his wife. 

And Madison had just broken his cycle, ripped apart the fragile belief that his marriage was a happy one, one that was not being just barely held together by half-assed illusions. Alexander was left to pick it up, and he found that he hated Madison all over again, as if he wouldn’t do just as he said and end up crawling back over to him when the time came. 

_ October 4th, 1945 _

Alexander spots Eliza in the corner of his eye. Her dress shows the line of her collar bone, the slope of her shoulders. Her hair is pinned delicately to the back of her head, and she looks young, pretty and if Alexander weren’t already married to her, Alexander would walk up to her. Her grays are dyed, and she looks much like the socialite that she is. She’s talking to who he’s sure is Kitty, along with a few other wives of his fellow politicians. Kitty is the most animated, as always. With her spoiled, boisterous way about her, with Eliza beside her, trying to keep up the pace. Kitty, whose olive gown clings to her narrow figure, keeps shooting the occasional glance at Alexander, with a secretive sort of smile on her lips, painted a rich red. Her glances are quickly followed by Eliza’s, and she never fails to give Alexander a sweet smile, the sort that would bring a man to his knees.

Watching the scene, Alexander tilts his head, watching them move and talk with a careful interest, feeling much like Actaeon, watching Artemis and her party. His head tilts to the side to watch them properly, catching Eliza’s eye properly. He smiles, and gives her a wave. She giggles, and turns back to her girlfriends, her pearls shining with each turn of her head. 

There’s a dip on the couch he’s sat on, and Alexander doesn’t bother to turn back, before he hears that familiar voice. “So that’s Miss Eliza Hamilton?” A shiver runs down Alexander’s spine. Madison, of course.

“Yes, that’s her. I thought you’d recognize one of your own.” 

“That’s not one of my own. That’s west coast money. A very different breed than mine.”

“If you two are so different, what does that make me?”

“That makes you a whole different species.” He says, “After all, you have to be, to be such a colossal  _ idiot _ .”

“I’m not an idiot.” Alexander says, trying not to sound petulant. “I’m starting to think I’m tired of you calling me an idiot all the time, James.” 

“Then stop acting like one, and I will.”

“What exactly do I do?”

“I could write an entire book on the reasons that you’re an idiot, Alexander. But in this situation, I think it truly shines.” He says. “Look at her, Alexander. You have convinced Eliza Schuyler that you’ve fallen in love with her, that you adore her and your children. You’ve let her believe that you reciprocate her feelings for you–”

“I do.” Alexander says. “I do love her, in a different way.”

“Not in the way she wants, even you know that.” Madison says. “This little ruse of yours will blow up in your face, and you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that you’ve ruined the life of a woman who had no business marrying a leech like you in the first place, as well as your children.” 

“You have a wife, don’t you?” Alexander retorts, face hot with anger and shame again. James had that way of pushing the right buttons to piss Alexander off.

“One I don’t lie to. One who shares my  _ proclivities _ .” He says. “There’s a reason that I don’t have children, Alexander.” 

“And you’ll have nobody to carry on your legacy.” 

“I don’t need it. My legacy speaks for itself, after all.” Madison says it so easily, as if his life is all neatly planned out. “And I’m not concerned with a family name, since there are about nine other Madisons who’ll take care of that particular issue for me.” 

Alexander doesn’t respond to that, for once. He looks back over to the group of women, who’ve grown in number. Madison pulls out a cigarette pack, and taps Alexander’s bicep with one. He waves him off, “I’m waiting for the cigar boy to pass by.”

“Those things smell like garbage.” Madison huffs, lighting his cigarette.

“They taste better. No nasty filter in the way.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Madison takes a quiet pull of his cigarette, the sort one takes to fill an uncomfortable silence. “If you say so.” Madison says, and looks around. “You know, Washington is here. And your cigar boy is on his way.” He stands, and with one last drag of his cigarette, he puts his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “I’ll see you, Alexander.”

The cigar boy does indeed walk over, and Alexander takes one, lighting it up himself, and when he turns back, he finds that Madison has blended back into the crowd. And in the far corner, is none other than Washington. Well, the  _ Washingtons _ . Martha is a presence of her own, and one far more intimidating than the President. Alexander feels as though he might actually disintegrate if he stays in her line of sight for too long. 

Alexander swallows, and is careful not to actually take a drag of his cigar, much as he might want to. Just holds it as he walks up to the Washingtons. “Evening sir.” He says, “And Mrs. Washington, it’s a pleasure, you look ravishing, as always.” He bends down and takes her hand to kiss. “When the radio said that the First Lady was a vision, I believe they undersold you.”

Martha’s lips pull away from her cigarette holder. “Don’t you know how to charm us dames?” She says, partially teasing. “George, darling, are you sure it’s safe to have him around the secretaries? I worry for them, with this one.” She chuckles.

The president smiles, genuinely smiles. 

“I’m holding out, but the rest of the cabinet is placing their bets alongside you.” 

Martha chuckles again, before setting her sights back on Alexander. “We’ll see about that, though I’m sue it’s hard to, with miss Schuyler on your arm. But, I’m sure  you’re not here to flirt with me, Mister Hamilton. You must be wanting something from George here.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right, Mrs. Washington, though I would love to sit here and flirt all night.” He says. “Mister President, a word?” 

Washington leads him to one of the side rooms, a quick affair with few greetings in between. The door opens, and it shuts with a gravity that Alexander truly wasn’t expecting. Washington sits on one of the cushioned seat, placed right across the other, as if the room was made for this exact situation. “So, Hamilton, what is it you want?”

“I want to discuss our work relationship.” He starts, steeling himself. “I find the way you constantly talk down to me, and refer to me as _ son _ or the like, as… unprofessional. It’s as if you see me more as an intern than you do a member of your _ literal _Cabinet.” Alexander says, throwing his hands up. “It’s like you and Knox are in a conspiracy to make me feel as though I’m a child– Madison is literally only four years older than me, and the way you two walk around him, you’d think he’s the Pope!”

“Madison’s father was a Colonel during the first World War, he has a respected name, and Madison has been bred to work in government since he was able to speak.” Washington counters, “He simply has more experience than you do, Hamilton, and I see no issue in reminding you that you still have much to learn.”

“Yes, he has more experience, and he’s your second cousin-”

  
“I won’t bother to ask how you found that out, but the fact that we are related does not relate to anything– he was voted in by the people, and even I could not change that.”

“No, you Southerners and your like are always boosting one another up-”

“And that’s not what you do? You married the daughter of the biggest oil tycoon in North America. You benefit off of their wealth, don’t you?”

“Yes, and there’s a reason I _ got _ there. I didn’t stumble upon it, I wasn’t born into it, like everybody else in that room–” Alexander motions to the door. “I worked for it. I clawed myself out of an island, while the rest of you were busy trying to choose whether you’d like seconds of your fillet mignon.”

“And we all acknowledge that.” Washington says.

“No, you belittle me for it. You just see some insipid island boy-”

“I agree with most of your points-”

“When _ Knox _ agrees first!” Alexander shouts, face red with rage. “Maybe if you listened instead of arguing every single point, then you’d understand my problem. I am not a boy in need of a father figure. If you truly believe I need to learn, mentor me. Be an actual guide. You realize that this-” Alexander motions to Washington, “Is the reason people don’t join your Cabinet!” He says.

Washington is quiet for a long moment, watching Alexander regain his breath as he tries to wind down. Alexander just breathes, in and out, in and out. Jesus Christ, he just shouted at the president and called him unpopular, to his face. He expects to get flat-out fired, and if he did, he’d still have his pride, which would at least count for something. But pride doesn’t put food on the table, and Alexander finds himself starting to feel a very rare emotion: regret. For a short time, but for what seems like an eternity, the only noise is the slight charring noise of his cigar. Which he’d forgotten about. 

Alexander hears the scrape of the chair across him, and Washington’s face is unreadable. “I suppose I’ll have to think about what you said, Hamilton.” He says, standing up slowly. “Have a good rest of your evening.”

“Evening, sir.” He says, opening the door and letting the president out.

Alexander closes the door behind him, wondering if he’s doomed himself. He leans back against the door for a moment, and pushes himself back up as though what he just did took great effort. He makes his way back to his seat, and he again realizes that his cigar is still burning. Oh. Alexander holds it between his teeth for a moment, before actually sucking it in. Just holding it in his mouth, not really inhaling before letting the smoke out.

Alex makes his way over to Eliza, and puts a hand over her back. He leans in, and puts his head on her shoulder. “Hello, darling.” He murmurs. “I missed you.” Alexander hugs her around her waist, hands just over her belly.

Eliza chuckles at that stroking at Alexander’s cheek. “What did you and Washington talk about that’s got you in such a good mood?” She teases, hands placed delicately over Alexander’s. “Is it a raise?”

“No, but don’t worry about it, darling. Just know that it was good.” Alexander reassures her, and as his eyes flick up, they meet Madison’s. Dark and knowing, and when he finds Dolley’s, her gaze is almost indistinguishable from James’. If there wasn’t such evident disappointment written all over their features, Alexander would be inclined to think it was mocking.

He pulls his eyes away and smiles again, letting go of Eliza to pull her to the nearest couch, insisting that standing for too long can’t possibly be good for her. 

If he thinks too much about Madison, he knows it’ll end up picking at him for days. It’ll put distance between him and Eliza that he doesn’t need to create. So, he just lets himself pack it up neatly into the back of his mind, and think only of the soft skin of Eliza’s hands intertwined on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martha Washington's FC is Eartha Kitt


	8. Some would sing and some would scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas reminisces.

_ February 19th, 1945 _

Thomas is touching John’s face. His warm, soft face. His square jaw and his strong nose, which gave him a severe look about him which didn’t seem to be his. His eyes were closed now, and Thomas runs his hands through his hair. It’s straight, in the way Martha’s was. Long and black and thick, and he’d only ever seen it again in John. His children had all followed down Thomas’ path in that particular feature. Even his mother had curly hair, though she pinned it back and straightened it as often as she could. She always said it was a shame Thomas had been born a boy, maybe then she’d be able to wrangle that hair of his.

And then she’d clipped it close to his scalp, just like his father had it. 

Thomas sees the white of John’s teeth. “You’re so weird sometimes, Thomas.” He chuckles. 

“I like to admire, that doesn’t make me weird.” 

John snorts a little then, “If that doesn’t make you weird, then stroking my hair certainly does.”

“It’s soft.” Thomas argues. 

“If you insist, sugar.” He hums, and Thomas can tell he enjoys it, even if he pokes fun. 

It’s silent again, and Thomas gets to just look over John’s face, the slope of his brow, the cut about a centimeter above his eyebrow, which had happened when he was a child, according to Abby. Thomas sighs, rediscovering the same old features in finer detail. 

“Why don’t you let me be on top?” Thomas says.

“Remember when we tried, and the moment you put your dick in me, you started laughing ‘cus my face turned red?” John says, eyes flicking open. That’s a part Thomas hadn’t surveyed well enough. “And I also struggled with the whole ‘eating broth all day’ thing.” He teases, and that smile grows wider again.

“Admittedly, you did kill my bone-on.” Thomas says. “Sorry, darling.” Thomas laughs, and he feels Adams’ hands on his hips again. He lets the laughter fade into an easy silence, letting John brush his hands over the slope of his waist, letting him touch comfortably for a few minutes before speaking again.

“But I do want to be on top again.”

“I do hope you’re joking.” John says, rolling Thomas onto his back, and settling on top of him again. Obviously ready for a second round already. “Do you not like what we have going on?”

“That’s not it… I just feel, bored, I guess. I want to change things up.” Thomas says. “We could try that, couldn’t we?”

John looks down at him and sighs, cupping his cheek. “I suppose we could.” He says, brushing over his cheekbone with his thumb. 

“Thank you, darling.” He murmurs. Looks up at John, and props onto his elbows. “Kiss?” He tries, just to make sure he’s not mad, or irritated with him. John had a way about him where whenever he was upset, he’d go inward; especially when it came to uncomfortable topics, which Thomas was quite talented at bringing up. 

He sees the conflict within John, and worries for a moment that he’ll say no. Just a moment. That John will just pull him up and not give him the closure of a damn peck.

Then a small sigh of relief escapes Thomas as John presses their lips together. Nothing intense, nothing particularly sexual about it. Just a kiss. Thomas lowers himself back onto the mattress, while John nips at the base of his neck, with one hand already maneuvering Thomas’ leg to press up against his chest.

_ March 1st, 1945 _

Thomas looks at her sleeping beside him. 

She’s tall. Far too tall compared to the familiarity of Martha. She’s skinny, and her ribs jut out with the purpose of a woman on a diet, where Martha was unconcerned. Her hair doesn’t fall flat on her scalp, thick and straight down her back. It’s coily and picked out for a proper puff; before they fell asleep, she complained about how she would have to iron her fringe again.

Thomas looks at her thin arm, and he doesn’t know if he moves or not, but she turns around to face him. “John was right, you’re kinda creepy.” She teases. 

Thomas frowns, but he doesn’t realize it, placing a hand on her bicep and running it up and down, in a mockery of something tender. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever experience genuine tenderness ever again, if he’ll ever feel a touch that had intent behind it beyond the simple need for touch. That it wasn’t just some other lonely soul needing to feel another human being, and Thomas was just so convenient.

His stomach sinks at the possibility, that the shrill voice inside him is _ right, _his only chance at it was with Martha, and she’s gone now. Nobody was going to take him after that.

No, he was too much trouble to truly love. Not everybody could be Martha, and it would be selfish to ask them to be. 

No, all possibilities of love had died alongside her. Even if he had the chance… 

He looks over Angelica. Doesn’t dare think what he wants to. To take a rich widow on- they might not love each other, but they were friends, and that could be enough for him. Just to have a friend nearby. 

She turns around and smiles at him. Her rouge is smeared. 

“You look like a child when you frown like that.” Angelica’s chuckling now, and her sharp features always make her smile seem more cunning than it is. Holding more intent than it truly does; and Thomas' frown only turns deeper as she laughs harder, “No! Don’t be mad, it’s cute!” She says warmly, cupping his face. “Come on, _ konijntje. _” Thomas has asked what the nickname means, and she always refuses to tell him. Says he’d be embarrassed if he found out. Which, of course, only makes him want to know more. But she says she’ll tell him one day. When they’re both old and frail and he won’t be able to hold it against her.

_ As if I could ever hold anything against you. _

“I’m not frowning.” He insists, if somewhat petulantly. “I’m just tired of my very unappreciative lovers being rude to me for admiring them.”

“Oh, poor baby!” She chuckles, “Are your feelings hurt?” She says, “Maybe I should tell John about it.”

Thomas takes her by the hips and pulls her close. They’re narrow. Angelica is thin all around, skinny and angular. What a sight they must make, both lanky- side by side, they must look like quite an impressive pair of streetlamps. Angelica squeals that his hands are cold- _ they’re always cold _. Thomas points out that her hands are the same, and he never complains, does he?

She smiles at him, grinning stupidly wide, and she rolls them over, so that he’s on his back, and Angelica leans down and kisses him, tenderly and with every bit of intimacy that the loneliest parts of him yearn for. 

Thomas feels guilt, settling deep and hard in his chest. Kissing John was different. John was a man, John was never going to be with him- never _ could _ be with him. He had a wife, and children. Angelica had a child, but one sent off to live with the father's family for half of the year. One who she half knew, half raised. She was a lonely widow, just like him.

Thomas pushes her off. “You know I can’t do that.” He says quietly. “I-I’m still mo-”

“I know.” She says quietly. “I wish you wouldn’t feel so… chained to her. She’s dead, Thomas, there’s nothing that she can do for you now. When my John-”

“You didn’t have to watch your John die, Angelica.” Thomas’ face scrunches up, and he feels his chest tighten with that guilt again. He’s certain, somehow, that Martha is watching, with disapproval etched onto her face as she watches him kiss another woman. “And besides, none of us are stupid. We all saw the marks.” 

Angelica doesn’t respond to that. “I miss Maria.” Finally, something true. Thomas wasn’t stupid enough to believe she mourned Mister Church. They both knew better than that- maybe it was just to dance around the obvious. To feel comfort in lying, in not showing vulnerability.

“Then why crawl back to me, why kiss me?”

“We’re both lonely.” Angelica sighs. And there’s the blow that Thomas knew was coming. “We’re not like John. We don’t have a spouse to go home to, children who love us to run on back to.” She looks over at the photograph on the nightstand beside her and winces. “Well, I don’t.”

“I don’t either.” He amends. 

They look at each other again, and Thomas is abruptly aware of the distance between them. “I suppose they won’t be able to see what pieces of shit we’re being from Heaven.” He tries.

“John’s not in Heaven.” Angelica corrects, leaning over him again. 

“Even better. Then he definitely can’t see us.” Thomas says. 

Angelica climbs on top of him again, but this time she just drapes herself over him. His arm finds its spot around her waist. He sighs. “It would be nice if we could love each other.” He says. “Imagine if we could do that.” 

Thomas strokes her hair as she laughs, nose pressed into his collarbone. “It would be nice.” She admits. “But neither of us are built for that." Her fingers run along his bicep, the side of her head pressed against his chest. Listening to his heartbeat. "Besides, there’s some merit to just being one another’s crutch.”

“It would be nice not to have a crutch at all.”

Angelica doesn’t respond to that, just stroking him, and Thomas decides that it’s better to just accept the touch, rather than play around with his feelings on the matter. Or her own.

_ March 3rd, 1945 _

The album book was mocking him. He was sure of it. It was the universe’s fucked up way of taunting him. The cover was a tiny image that he knew well. The tiny, grainy image of Martha holding Patsy. Thomas was behind the camera, but he remembers his first sight of his baby being blurry from tears. 

His thumb brushes the image, kept safe by the lamination over it. He peels the book open. 

Every image is still as grainy as the time would allow. A few of them were blurry, where Thomas’ hands shook, but Martha had insisted he keep them anyways. They were still memories, even if they were near-impossible to understand in the already inarticulate camera. Thomas’ finger brushes over his and Martha’s wedding photo. She was shoulder height, in her tiny kitten heels; always complaining about how her feet hurt in anything smaller, and in anything pinchier in the toes. 

He can’t even see her shoes, in her drapey, long dress. It’s thin around the shoulders, unlike the old fashioned princess sleeves that were incredibly popular among southern socialites. Thomas can almost make out the powder on her face, the grains of eyeshadow on her lid. 

Her lips were sticky when they kissed. Glossy and shiny. 

His mind wanders to where it shouldn’t. To Angelica– her lips weren’t sticky, but they were soft. Her hands were cold on his chest, her sharp nails digging slightly into his skin. Her hair wasn’t ticklish at the ends, and god, everything was different. Too different; or maybe just as it should be. Would Martha even want him to go after another woman? 

But wouldn’t she want him to move on?

Thomas doesn’t know which feeling to follow. But he knows he shouldn’t move on with Angelica. With a woman he sees as a close friend, who he loves, but he can’t be truly intimate with. He couldn’t picture Angelica cradling his face in her hands- _ and God, Martha’s hands were always warm, her nails were never sharp, and she always held him close- _

Thomas sits there, feeling a deep ache at the back of his throat.

He stares at the wall for a moment, “I miss you.” He says quietly, to Martha, to _ nobody _\- the nobody aspect had been harder to accept. Especially in the first year of it. He’d call out to Martha, he’d forget that there was nobody there, that she had left and there was a deliberate absence in her wake and what was Thomas supposed to do? Would calling out to some fake spirit of her soothe him, or maybe bring her to him, somehow?

Thomas knew that idea was stupid, that nobody would come back.

His mother had told him that when his grandmother died. Thomas hadn’t cried so much then- he hadn’t understood death, hadn’t understood its permanence, but he’d felt a distinct hollowness, a blankness that hadn’t been there before, as he processed the true length of _ forever_. And when he’d turned to his mother, she’d let him hold her hand. She’d pet his hair, and listened when he said that he missed her.

The sort of gentleness that he’d always longed for.

Thomas’ throat hurts again. There’s not enough hours in the day to think of how things might’ve gone if Martha were still here. Maybe the girls would still talk to him like they used to. At least, he definitely wouldn’t be sleeping around half of Europe.

He, at least, would have someone to love him. And that’s enough for him. Just someone to hold while the storm passed, someone who would assure him that things would be alright. Most days, he had trouble believing that.

Maybe if Martha were here, he wouldn’t have trouble with it.

He stares at the album, and he brushes her face on their wedding photo. She’s smiling kindly. She looks gentler than she is- _ was_. Part of him had hoped he was beyond that. Forgetting that she was in the past tense. 

He closes the album after that, not quite able to stomach looking at her anymore, sure that he’ll spiral again, and call John, or worse, Angelica, drunk and barely decipherable, but definitely begging for company. 

The fact that he knows that he’ll do that, says quite a bit about him, doesn’t it. Well, that’s something he’ll pack away to inspect later, in true Jefferson fashion. Instead, he finds leisure in another bad habit.

Martha had always said that those things were poison- nothing good for you makes you choke up. Nothing you inhale should make you cough like you just inhaled water. Thomas had lent her some credence in that regard, but had never quite kicked the habit. He’d keep his head above the water for a few months, and then be pulled back down. He opens the window, and pulls a stick out of the pack on the nightstand. Lights it with a match- he should probably get on buying a lighter soon, though he knows he won’t.

He focuses on it for a moment. The feeling of choking on water. The feeling of trying to breathe. He remembers when he was a child, his mother was teaching him to swim at the pool. The pool back in Monticello, that he’d hardly ever used anymore. Few came over, and the weather in Virginia was rarely kind enough for it, anyways. It was windy that day, but still sunny and Thomas had complained that it was cold, that he didn’t want to get into the pool, even as his mother called for him to come in.

She’d been at the shallow end, just where the water would have touched his chin, and told him to paddle over to her.

About midway through the attempt to wade in, Jane had grabbed him by the middle, hoisted him over her shoulder as he shrieked, and as his mother shouted for her to put him down, that they would get hurt, Mary ignored her and threw him over the edge, on the opposite side of where their mother was. Deep water, deeper than he thought he'd ever felt. Deep enough to put pressure on his temples. 

He sunk, deeper and deeper- or deeper than a six year old could go. His ears popped painfully as he struggled in the water. And it wouldn’t move, making his limbs heavy and slow as he flung his arms forward, legs stumbling where there was nowhere to gain footing. The water stung his trachea, the chlorine on his tongue, and his nose ached from breathing it all in. 

He distinctly remembers being able to see the sky. His eyes stung, but he could see the gray bottoms of the clouds, and then an unseen pair of hands were pulling him up. His mother, shrieking with worry as she pulled him close, while he was still busy coughing up the water, paddling to the edge of the pool, where she could sit him down on the bench.

He’d still been coughing, and his throat hurt as she pat his back and cooed how worried she was, petting his wet hair as he continued to hack up the water.

Thomas is comforted by the fact that his mother isn’t alive to see his mess of a life. Surely, if Martha is watching, so is she, but she can’t intrude. Can’t give advice or criticism on how he’s handling it, on how he _ should _ be handling it. There’s no suffocating excuse for warmth while he struggles.

And Thomas catches himself staring at the building opposite him without really looking. He wonders if anyone in that building is up with him, trying to make sense of it all.

The idea gives him some small comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term konijntje means rabbit/bunny, which is why Angelica doesn't tell him/believes he would hold it against her.  
The Maria who is referenced is Maria Cosway, not Maria Lewis Reynolds.  
John Church is also referenced.


	9. questions I can't ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander reminisces on Lafayette, and shares a moment with Eliza.

_ November 23, 1945 _

Alexander is sitting back on the edge of the desk. Jefferson is still fucking prattling on about _ France _ and the percieved debt that America has to them. His papers rest on his lap, waiting for his turn to speak again. Alexander doesn’t even understand _ why _ Jefferson is on the Cabinet. All he ever does is butt heads with everyone else in it, with his big ego and his colorful clothes that stand out like a sore thumb. 

“Are you even paying attention to what I’m saying, Hamilton?”

Alexander focuses on the face beside the patch of beige wall that he was contentedly staring at. 

“No, I don’t believe I was.” Alexander spits out. “My apologies, Secretary Jefferson, it’s just that your incessant droning about our _ alleged _ loyalty to France makes my brain rot, and I thought I’d spare myself the trouble.” And he’s so obviously delighted by the way Jefferson’s nose scrunches up in rage. He leans back, knowing he’s already sunk his claws in deep, but he wants to feel the vindication of it all. “You know, I don’t even know why you’re on this Cabinet. You clearly aren’t cut out for it.”

Jefferson narrows his eyes. “And I don’t understand why Henry Knox’s ex-intern got a job in the Cabinet, yet here we both are, Secretary Hamilton.” He says, fixing his papers in that infuriating way, the sort that marks the end of the discussion.  
  


Alexander sucks in an angry breath, fists clenching and wrinkling the papers that Eliza had so lovingly printed out, at his request. “Yet I’m not a Francophile asking his country to relieve the debt of a country who couldn’t even maintain control of itself. It owes us for getting the Nazis out of Paris, not that you would _ know_, since you didn’t even fight in the war, and hid in Europe until the coast was clear.”

Jefferson looks back at him, eyes narrowed, and he takes stock of Alexander, eyes looking him up and down with such clear distaste, disgust for the man in front of him. He’s silent for that brief moment, and it seems that finally, Alexander has hit a sore spot, somewhere that clearly marks the line for Jefferson. That wounds that seemingly impenetrable ego of his.

But as Hamilton’s luck would have it, Jefferson does find something to say in return. 

“Well, Hamilton, I’m sorry I didn’t sacrifice myself to the incredible honor of being lunch meat for the Germans, instead of actually doing work to bring the war to an end. Next time, I promise I’ll get shot at while the actual work is done by someone so brilliant as you.” He snips. “Besides, don’t pretend that we somehow did that all on our own. Don’t _you_ forget that there was a French Resistance long before we stepped foot on Normandy. I thought Lafayette would have told you that.”

Alexander is sure that his blood turns to ice in that moment. There’s that implicit threat in his voice, written all over his face. And surely Alexander should ask _ how _ he knows about Lafayette, how he knows about Alexander in the first place. Knowing Lafayette himself wasn’t a great leap, but his and Alexander's friendship was somewhat buried, at Alexander’s request. Not to mention when their relationship grew into something more... inappropriate.

This wasn’t information he could have just stumbled upon.

Jefferson grins, and straightens his papers. “So, anything else that you’d like to argue, Hamilton? Beyond your argument that our greed should outweigh our goodwill to France.” 

“France should at least pay some of it back, or do so without interest.” He argues, pushing himself back up. “We need the money-”

“Our economy is booming, I don’t see why we w-”

“Christ above, I already explained this! I’m beginning to wonder if you ever listen to what people say, Jefferson!” 

“Oh, that’s _ rich_, Hamilton. If you ever stopped talking, I would honestly believe I’d died and gone to Heaven.” 

Washington threateningly clears his throat. Clearly warning them _ both _ to shut the fuck up. There’s a moment where the stalemate continues in uncomfortable silence.

“As I was _ saying, _ sir.” Alexander says. “The money is still ours, and they owe us- we loaned it, we didn’t gift it to them.” He explains, “We’ve shown our goodwill to the French in aiding their liberation, as well as loaning them the money in the first place. It’s ridiculous to pretend that we have to continue giving to them, regardless of what Jefferson says. His input is biased in their favor, anyways, since he worked as a mediator for France.”

“_Hamilton_.”

“_What?!_ I’m right, and we all know it. You just brought him in so that the Democrats wouldn’t weep over how your Cabinet is mostly Republican!”

Washington sucks in a deep breath through his nose, and Alexander knows what he’s going to say. _ Calling recess. Alexander, take a minute to cool off outside, take a walk. _

Water off a duck’s back.

When Washington calls that recess, Alexander storms out of the Cabinet room. It doesn't matter. They can reschedule the meeting. 

_ June 18th, 1944 _

Lafayette’s fingers are tracing over Alexander’s bandages. His nails are cut short, and the pads of his fingers just drag over the fabric of the gauze. Alexander just barely feels him through it. For a moment, it seems as though him and Lafayette are in perfect sync. Both quiet, both resting. As though the blood in their bodies is circulating between the two of them, like a single being, rather than two separate ones. A uniform system.

Lafayette speaks first. Like he always does. Even Alexander sometimes finds it annoying how much he speaks, though complaining about it comes with many jumping to Lafayette’s defense, often at Alexander’s detriment.

But when they’re alone, he speaks in French, it's different. When Alexander told him he spoke it, Lafayette had been delighted, relieved to find some common ground with the American soldiers, or rather, one American soldier. “Why don’t you tell me about your life outside the war?” 

“You wouldn’t want to hear about it. It would upset you.”  
  


“I’m asking, though.” Lafayette argues. “Besides, you don’t know if it would upset me or not.”

“You’re very naive, Gilbert.” Alexander says, and raises a hand up, “I wouldn’t want to ruin your idea of me.” He brushes his cheek with his knuckles, eyes soft. 

“Surely you can’t have done something so horrible as to ruin my idea of you.”

“You’re very honorable. I think I could.” 

“Not so honorable.” Lafayette breaks into his English, a small, secretive smile on his lips. “Tell me, please?”

Alexander’s eyes shut for a moment. Sucks in a deep breath, teeth grit. The tiny bit of morphine they’re steadily dripping into him isn’t doing wonders for his pain, but it does certainly help in weakening him to Lafayette’s constant prying. “Fine.” He groans, back in their comfortable French. Cracks open an eye, and of course, Lafayette is delighted by the turn of events, going so far as to give a quiet little _ whoop! _in the middle of the ward. 

Truly, the rich had no shame. Or perhaps it was just Lafayette. Alexander was inclined to believe the latter, with just how polite the Schuylers were. But then again, they're new money. Lafayette's eccentricities could've only come from long-standing wealth. A good name that allowed for his lack of social grace. 

But Alexander won’t let him worm out so easily. “So long as you tell me about your life.” He’d, of course, gotten little bits of it. That he was born rich, his family had deep coffers in all of France, and a bloodline spanning back centuries. A strenuous home-life, for reasons unknown. 

“We’ll take it as we go.” Lafayette says easily, unphased by it.

“I have a wife.” Alexander spits. “And a child. A son. His name is Philip.” 

“And your wife’s name?”

“Elizabeth.” 

“If you have a wife-”

“I said I would tell you about my life, not that I’d answer any questions about it.” He says coolly. 

“No, I’m not saying this to be rude, Alexandre, but you are... Poor, yes?” 

“Lower middle class.”

“Well, the _ lower middle class _ usually marries for love, no?”

“So they say.” 

Lafayette winces. “So you don’t love her, then?”

“It’s complicated.”  
  


“I see.” But clearly, Lafayette did not see. Of course, Alexander wouldn’t tell him who his wife was, properly explain the situation with _ Lafayette _ of all people. For all his good intentions, the man had a very black and white sense of morality about him, and part of Alexander worried risking his marriage with Eliza, should Lafayette find a way to tell her. Though, he doesn’t truly believe that he would. 

Well, Alexander doesn’t know if he believes that he would. Lafayette’s moral code changed with every passing day.

“I have a wife as well.” Lafayette admits. “Adrienne.” 

Alexander laughs at that. A hearty laugh, one that makes the wound on his back ache. Somehow, he’s surprised by the fact that this aristocratic, sheltered man was married off. “How did that happen, exactly?”

“She was fourteen, and I was sixteen.” Lafayette explains, still touching Alexander’s bandages. He’s probably nervous. “We… well, putting it simply, I liked her enough to make her my wife.” 

Alexander understands all at once. The pressure to marry, to ensure the legacy. 

“But we grew. I am not the same person I was at sixteen, and she isn’t the same girl as she was at fourteen.” He says, “But I believe a divorce would be… an unwise choice. One that neither of us would want to happen.” Lafayette is still staring down. “We have two children now. Anastasie and Georges.” He elaborates, “And we still make good enough friends.”

“But marriage isn’t for friends.”

“And marriage isn’t for people like us, Alexandre. So, what choice would either of us have, then? I leave her a divorced woman, shamed and with two children in the mix, and for what?" Lafayette seems more like Alexander, in times like these. Those moments when they feel so well coordinated. 

Right now it's almost too perfect, how in sync they are. "What would wait for me at the end of a scandalous divorce?”

It’s silent for a few moments, because what can Alexander say to him? There’s no definite answer, save the possibility of loneliness for the rest of his life. A messy divorce over a lofty idea of a romance that may never come to happen. 

Alexander’s romance had already come and gone. Who’s to say what would happen to Lafayette? And Alexander wouldn't subject him to that.

“I understand.” Alexander murmurs, and he does, in the most painful way. He understands having a life, having a _love_ who doesn’t fulfill what you need. “Were you ever in love with her?”

“Sometimes I still am.”

“What changed, then?”

“I believe this conversation was supposed to be about you, Alexandre.”

“Let’s call it a give and take.”

“Fine.” Lafayette looks up, at the ceiling. “But you have to promise to tell me about your _ complicated situation, _ then.”

“That seems fair.” 

“I mean it, Alexandre.”

“I know.”

“That means no talking your way out of it.”

Alexander chuckles, “I know, Gilbert.” And Lafayette nods to himself. “Now, tell me yours.”

“We just grew older. Nobody stays the same, and… our interests have changed. We no longer want each other. It’s as simple as that.” He says, “And it is hard not to grow resentful of someone when you are being strong-armed into staying with them.”

“So, you’re resentful of her?”

“Sometimes.”

“And you love her sometimes?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Lafayette says, and he sounds… somewhere veering dangerously melancholic. And grief is a luxury that none of them could afford, one that would require that one unpack every strain on them, and would ultimately leave them useless, unable to fight and an easy casualty for the Germans.

“I don’t think so.” Alexander says, and he’s not sure whether or not he believes Lafayette, believes even himself. Sometimes he loves Eliza, after all. Loves her in the way she wants of him. “But others might not.”

“She doesn’t believe me.”

“Do you blame her?”

“Sometimes.”

“What else do you blame her for?”

Lafayette’s eyes flick up, and he doesn’t answer Alexander’s question. “Does your wife believe that you love her?”

“Yes.” And that’s the worst part, in some ways. Knowing that she trusts him; that the thought of what he does is truly unthinkable to her. She believes him when he says he loves her, and she doesn’t even doubt it once in her mind. Alexander is hers, and hers alone. 

“Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why only sometimes?”

“A difference in interests, just like you.” 

“But _ why_?”

“I can’t love her.” Alexander grunts, shifting up on the bed. “I never could. And asking will yield me nothing but misery. I just content myself with loving her sometimes.”

“That’s a rather miserable way to live.”

“And you’re one to speak on it, since you’re in such a loving marriage?”

Lafayette rolls his eyes. “You’re so pessimistic, Alexandre. It wouldn’t kill you to just take things at face value.” 

Alexander snorts a little at that, “And I believe you don’t read into anything enough, Lafayette.”

“Ah, so I’m stupid.”

“Perhaps just a little bit.” And Lafayette takes the opportunity to pinch at his side, making Alexander squawk in surprise, irritating the rest of the ward. Which makes Lafayette laugh. 

It’s a nice laugh.

_ July 2nd, 1944 _

Lafayette’s fingers are still on his bandages, still touching Alexander, like he always does. Touching him, like neither of them should be touching each other. It’s always in secret, just discrete brushes of the hand, small shared smiles, and eye contact that lasts just a bit too long. Even in the trenches.

Lafayette’s hands are warm. As is his cheek on Alexander’s chest. He’s always warm, like a living furnace. Alexander’s mother used to say that about his brother James. That he was just like his namesake, always warm to the touch.

Lafayette looks contemplative, as though something is plaguing him. Alexander studies his features. The handsome furrow of his brow, the way his bottom lip pops out while he chews at his cheek. His eyes aren’t visible, no, just a view of his long eyelashes, thick and always sticking up. Alexander wondered how a man looked so _ pretty_. Alexander had taken to calling him womanly, and though it may have had some truth to it, it made Lafayette laugh. That pretty laugh, that showed perfect teeth.

“Penny for your thoughts, pretty boy?”

Lafayette chuckles then. “It would certainly cost you more than a penny for that.”

  
“Is that so?”

Lafayette grins, and shifts, resting his chin on Alexander’s chest. “It is so.” He says warmly, smiling coyly. “Besides, I don’t think you’d want to hear it.” He has a playful cadence about him, just as he always does.

“And why not?”

“Because I know you.” He says warmly.

“Tell me.” Alexander half-pleads, chuckling a little, “You know I can’t stand suspense, since you know me so well.”

“You have to promise that you won’t be angry with me, then.”

“You know I can’t promise that.” Alexander says, brow furrowing a little with confusion.

Lafayette doesn’t respond then, which makes Alexander’s pulse spike a bit. Uncomfortable with the possibilities of what _ it _ could be. He shifts back to their former position, facing away from Alexander, rather down at nothing in particular as he toys with the bandage. No longer having to meet his eyes, to truly face whatever Alexander might say in response. “I think I love you.”

Alexander very nearly jumps out of Lafayette’s grip. “What the fuck?” 

Lafayette frowns, and it would make a funny picture, with the way his eye is covered by the white bandages, if he hadn’t just said _ that_. “You can’t act as though this is entirely unprecedented, Alexandre, you’ve been fucking me since you Americans first hit land on France!”

“Exactly, we’ve _ just _ been fucking, Lafayette-”

“You’re fucking joking, you act like a schoolboy with his first crush around me-”

“Believe me, you are _ far _ off of the mark- if anyone’s acting like a schoolboy, it’s you. Constantly grabbing my hand, constantly smiling at me, God, and you’re always asking for attention-”

“You must be fucking crazy, you- you’re the one who initiated all of this!” Lafayette is properly angry now, pulling his boxers back on as he slides off the bed. “You were the one who _ literally— _you know what, I shouldn’t even bother with you.” Lafayette practically snarls, his fingers are no longer tracing Alexander’s bandages, right over where the wound is beginning to scar. Rather, his index finger is pointed dangerously to the center of Alexander’s chest. 

“Oh, why, because I’m not letting you delude yourself into thinking that you loved me, after knowing me for what— two weeks?”

“Excuse me for having feelings, then! Should I learn to be a robot, like _ you _?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, to put it in terms that you understand, I’m certainly not surprised that you’re content with only half loving your wife. Clearly, you’re not used to loving _ anybody! _I have to wonder if you even love your own mother-“

“And I have to wonder if you have a brain in that fucking head of yours!” Alexander hisses. “Get the fuck out of my bed. See if anyone else wants to deal with you!”

“I’m sure they will- more than they’d ever want to deal with _ you _ , since all you know is how to be callous, Alexandre!” He shouts it, haphazardly pulling on his clothes, and probably alerting anybody nearby of the fact that he’s _ royally pissed_. 

“At least people don’t just hang out with me out of pity!”

Lafayette’s nose is wrinkled in rage; “And yet I’m still leagues above you.” He snaps, buttoning the top button of his shirt.

“You wish-”

“If only you didn’t have an ego the size and depth of the Atlantic, then you would stop your pathetic attempt at having the last word, Alexander!” Lafayette shouts, and he sucks in a frustrated breath before throwing the door open, then slamming it shut as he steps out of the barrack and into the summer heat.

  
  


_ November 23rd, 1945 _

_ 9:38 _

Alexander’s head is in Eliza’s lap, both of them finally having a break from Angelica, after a screaming match about bed time that lasted far longer than a fight with a two year old had any right to. Her voice had increased in pitch in a way that surely gave the both of them _ some _ sort of ear damage, which Alexander had lovingly attributed to Eliza’s singing voice. Which resulted in Eliza gruffly saying that the argument itself surely proved that Angelica was Alexander’s daughter. 

Eliza sinks her hand into Alexander’s hair, gently scratching at his scalp.

“I wish Washington wouldn’t keep you for so long.” She murmurs, flipping the page of her novel. “It’s awfully boring in this house without you.” 

“Don’t the children keep you company?”

“The children can’t read words with more than two syllables in them, so no, their conversation is not terribly riveting.” She sighs.

“Well, tell me what you’re reading then, and I can find time to read it, and discuss all the multi-syllabic words you want.” Alexander props his head up, which gets Eliza to set down her book and pay all of her attention to him.

Eliza chuckles, “It’s nothing you’d like. Besides, this is about your ridiculous work hours.”

“Come on, Betsey, don’t be like that.” Alexander says, “Come _ on_, please tell me.” He pleads teasingly, dragging out the vowels playfully.

“No, I know you.” She says, “You’ll just make fun of it.”

“I know you wouldn’t make me read anything stupid.”

“See, this is why I won’t tell you-”

Alexander sits up, and curls his fingers as they close dangerously around her waist, “Tell me!” 

“No.” She chides, “No, don’t tickle me, Alex, you know I can’t stand it!”

Alexander laughs, “I will, if you don’t tell me! The choice is yours!” He says, grinning stupidly wide. 

“No! You’ll hurt the baby!” 

“You’re hardly showing!”

  
“The baby is still _ there _, Alexander!” She says, and shrieks as Alexander presses his fingers into her side. “No! No!” She laughs, kicking up at him, “Stop! I’ll tell you!” 

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you, Betsey, what was that?” Alexander teases.

“My God! The book is Dracula! Stop tickling me!” She heaves, grabbing at his wrists.

Alexander hums for a moment, not stopping, and Eliza crows, “_ Alexander!” _ and he finally stops, letting her push him away with her foot, making him laugh. “I’m starting to understand why Jefferson hates you!” She says, wrapping her arms around herself, “Is this what you do in the Cabinet Room?” Eliza’s lips are drawn into an exaggerated frown, and Alexander is still laughing, tipping his head back onto the arm of the couch. 

“You’re so dramatic, ‘Liza-”

“Sure, it’s funny when you do it!”

Alexander still cackles, finally settling down as Eliza does, and she dives over the arm of the couch, plucking _ Dracula _ off of the couch. “You’re insufferable, and I don’t know why I married you.” She huffs, settling between Alexander’s legs, back to his chest as he places a hand on her stomach. 

Alexander hums, “Because I’m wonderful, and you love me just as much as you love reading old horror books?” He teases as she searches for her page. 

“You’re horrible.” She argues. 

“Never.” He says, kissing the back of her head. Letting them both finally calm down, with Alexander able to read over her shoulder. Occasionally, she’ll have to ask if he’s done or not, and he usually nods.

And they fall asleep that way, in each other’s arms, only waking up to crawl back to their bed at some time in the early morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette is portrayed by the extremely talented Chris Lee!


	10. exciting you, the rumble where you live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Alexander talk.

_ July 11th, 1947 _

Hamilton is taking forever. 

To cum, that is. His pace is even weakening, like he too, is tired at this point. He’s been struggling for a solid five minutes since Thomas came, and it stopped being tolerable a while ago. By now, he should’ve cum, or thrown in the towel. Thomas’ joints are getting sore from the strain of holding the position, and the effort of it all is making both of them sweat, which has also stopped being tolerable. So Thomas grunts, and puts a hand on Alexander’s chest, “You’re taking fucking forever.”

Alexander stops, and he frowns down at him, “Thank you for your astute observation, sweetheart. What would I do without you?” 

Thomas scowls up at him, “Oh, you think I enjoy having you pitifully try to jackhammer your way into an orgasm? Surely you don’t think that this is even half-decent performance.”

“Well, isn’t that always nice to hear. I’ll be sure to orgasm in a more timely man-”

“You should be sure to do that, actually, since my knees hurt like nothing else, and your half-hard dick is still inside me. Speaking of.” Thomas grunts, and presses the sole of his foot on Hamilton’s chest, pushing him away. “Get the fuck out of me.”

There’s a moment where Hamilton’s face twists up as if he’s going to argue about it, complain like it’s somehow  _ Thomas’ _ fault that he’s suddenly impotent for the night.But he pulls out without a word, clearly frustrated, settling down on the bed with a grunt. 

Thomas knows where this will lead the moment he reaches over to grab his pack of cigarettes, and he doesn’t feel the dip in the bed from Hamilton on the other side. No, this is going to be its own  _ situation _ . Because by God, surely Hamilton can’t just have an off day; no, he’s the  _ man _ in this situation, he has to cum, and therefore make  _ that _ the conclusion of the evening.

Thomas groans, and pulls away from the pack. They both sit there for a few moments; Thomas can see Hamilton pinching the bridge of his nose in his periphery. Huffing out with clear frustration as he struggles to figure out exactly _ why _ he can’t find it in himself to find satisfaction. 

Thomas rolls onto his side, and pushes his hair back, away from his eyes. 

He knows what this is about. He’s not stupid; Hamilton is practically an open book, and ever since he gave in to his guilty conscience surrounding his wife, he’d been trying to stay away. He’d made good on his promise to do it  _ less often _ , even going two weeks without Thomas’ company. Frankly, Thomas was a little bit impressed at the fourteen day streak, even if Hamilton had still broken it.

However, it seems that the guilt still won out on the satisfaction front, which was arguably the most important part of… this  _ thing.  _

Hamilton groans, then sighs, then rubs at his eyes. As he finally drops his arm to the side, Thomas opens his mouth to say something. He doesn’t know what. Maybe ask if Hamilton wants to…  _ talk _ about it, as uncomfortable of an idea, as playing armchair psychiatrist for Hamilton, is. Maybe just say that he might finally be getting old. Try to get a rise out of him; see if it gets him anywhere. It would be simpler, and it might just get him a second round, that might cease Hamilton’s horrible moping. 

The man couldn’t even  _ sulk _ quietly-- something even Thomas was polite enough to do.

Before Thomas can even think of the right thing to say, of how to open up this surely unpleasant conversation, Hamilton speaks for him. Just spitting it out without fuss or a back and forth, with Thomas trying to coax it out of him. That’s how Thomas would have imagined it would have gone, if they had ever gotten to this point before.

But they hadn’t, and there’s no formula for this sort of thing, and especially not with Hamilton. Thomas had recognized a certain cageyness to Hamilton, that wasn’t here right now. 

Nothing about Hamilton was sitting right.   
  


“I’m a fucking horrible husband.” He says, followed by a bitter laugh. “I’m fucking- I’m  _ cheating on her _ with a  _ man _ , and I’m fucking lying to her about where I am every night, so that- so that I can pretend to her that I’m not a shit husband.” Hamilton gulps thickly, and that uncomfortable laugh comes back, louder this time. 

“She deserves better than this.” Hamilton says, voice dry and bordering on cracked. “Better than me.”

Thomas sits up, and he tries to not look over him with disdain, with the sort of annoyance that could only be produced by a pity party of this caliber. Although he succeeds at that, he does fail in biting his tongue, in keeping himself from saying something spectacularly cruel.

He tries to maintain some patience.

“She does.” Thomas says simply. “She deserves leagues better than a man like you, Hamilton. And frankly, I don’t understand how a woman like that ended up with someone as callous as you.” He adds, knowing that he’s cutting through Hamilton as he does so. “And now, selfish and callous as you are, you’re crying to  _ me _ about what a horrid husband you are, as though I’m supposed to do something about it. You’ve just spent the past thirty minutes trying to cum out your frustrations in me, and  _ I’m  _ supposed to absolve you?”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as Thomas realizes that he’s snapped at Hamilton. As Hamilton just lets out a shuddery sigh-- the sort that men give when they’re dangerously close to crying, showing weakness. Showing vulnerability.

He can see, even with Hamilton’s eyes shut, how his eyes must be glassy. And he hears Hamilton mumble  _ shit _ in frustration. Trying to piece himself together. 

“Are you going to do anything about it? If this weighs on your conscience so  _ badly _ , are you going to stop?”

“No.” Hamilton spits it out again-- it’s said with little thought, as though he has answered the question a thousand times over, and he likely has, in his head. When he lies beside his wife, wondering if it’s worth it, if he could stand to betray her anymore. 

“No?”

“I couldn’t do it.” Hamilton admits, quick and painful, like he’s pulling off the band-aid by telling Thomas this. 

“And why not?” Thomas already knows the answer, but part of him won’t let Hamilton beat around the bush, won’t let him get away with a half-assed admission of guilt, one that allows him to feel both absolution, and like he hasn’t told Thomas anything of value. Thomas watches Alexander strain under the weight of the question; chewing his lip, pushing back his sweaty hair, and sucking in a thick breath through his nose.

“Because I don’t love her.”

Thomas winces as it comes out. He hadn’t expected it to be so abrupt; in truth, he’d expected more pushing, more resistance from Alexander for the truth to come out. Apparently the truth had not been buried for him. It was there, always waiting to be confronted. Hamilton had dropped the pretenses about his feelings for Eliza. Perhaps it had been eating at Hamilton so long, that surely he had just needed the relief of telling someone. 

Well, Thomas wasn’t stupid. Thomas knew he had told others. Surely he had- he had other lovers, more than Thomas knew, surely, and he had told them. But having to keep it a secret to everyone, surely wore at someone as loudmouthed as Hamilton. He would weather beneath the weight of carrying the secret. That he did not want his wife, he did not love her.

His perfect, nuclear family is a sham, and he loathed to maintain the farce, while relying on the farce to maintain his livelihood.

“Why did you marry her if you don’t love her?” Thomas says. “Unless you fell out.” And Thomas blames Alexander for his own misery, in that sense. Perhaps he would not have gotten bored with his wife and his home-life if he had never tasted the excitement of sharing his bed with another man. If he had not taken lovers during the war and after, he would have nothing to compare Eliza to, and he could find no reason to be bored of her.

“She was kind, and funny.” Hamilton says. “And that’s all I needed.” Alexander sits up, now, leaning back against the headboard. “I regarded her as a friend, more than as a girlfriend.” He shrugs, and now he rubs at his forehead, groaning a little, “Sometimes I convinced myself that I loved her, or that I was attracted to her. And looking back on it, I don’t think I ever was. She was just… kind to me, and she was pretty. Why  _ wouldn’t _ I have married her? I liked her well enough, we got along. And sometimes that was enough for me to fool myself into loving her.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, as Hamilton clears his throat, and turns his head to finally  _ look _ at Thomas. Meets his eyes, and the moment feels too vulnerable to leave, yet too vulnerable to stay in.

Thomas swallows, meeting Hamilton, who’s waiting for a response, for  _ something  _ from him, and turns his head away. 

“Did you love her, your wife?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant to your situation with your wife.” Thomas says it with as much ease as he can, “My wife is dead. Yours is still very much alive.”  _ You lucky bastard _ . 

“Just answer the question, Jefferson.” He says, and he almost sounds like he’s pleading. “Nothing that happens between us leaves this room. You know that.” 

“I did. I loved Martha more than I loved anyone I’ve ever known.” Thomas says easily. The same way Hamilton could easily say that he did not love Eliza. Knowing that it is the truth, down to their core. “But why did you want to know? So that you could feel better about not loving your wife, if I answered that I didn’t either? It wouldn’t alleviate your guilt, even if the answer  _ was _ no. No matter how many people you tell behind her back, it will never take the weight off your shoulders, because while you look her in the face and you lie to her, it’ll bother you.” 

Hamilton lets out a bitter chuckle, “That wasn’t it.” He says, “As much as you hate me, I thought you would’ve understood that much, at least.” Alexander looks at him, “And you know me better than that.” He murmurs. “You know you do.” 

“I know that you’re a liar.” He says, “I know the worst parts of you. I don’t think it’s too far fetched to believe that you’d use me as a means of alleviating your guilt.” 

“But why would I seek absolution from you?” Alexander says. “You’re right beside me, aren’t you? We’re sharing the same bed.” 

“I’m not right beside you.” He says. “I’m not a liar, Hamilton. And that’s where you and I are different. I never hurt my wife while she was alive. I  _ loved _ her, just as she loved me, and if I hadn’t loved her, she would have known.” Thomas looks at him.

“I don’t enjoy lying to Eliza.”

“And yet you do it. And I know  _ why _ , and on some level, I can almost  _ understand _ it, just as you said. I could almost sympathize with you. But you know what the problem is, Alexander? You can’t take the blame for it. All you know is how to  _ victimize _ yourself so that it’s either someone else’s fault or nobody’s fault at all.”

Hamilton looks like someone has just slapped him in the face. “And yet you bed me, don’t you?”

“This conversation isn’t about my morality.” 

“No, but you’re the one who’s trying to preach to the choir, aren’t you?” And it sounds like they’re back on the Cabinet floor, trying to spit out the most biting comment. 

“I’m trying to give you a solution so that your dying conscience doesn’t eat at you until you’re too old to get your dick up. Yes, I bed you, because I like fucking you, yes, I can almost tolerate your conversation sometimes. That doesn’t mean that I am somehow beneath passing moral judgements on you.” Thomas says, deciding to ease up where he could say more. There is so much more to say on Hamilton, on what a tremendous fuck-up he is. But he thinks Hamilton’s gotten the point already. “In fact, I think it gives me  _ more _ right to pass moral judgements on you.”

That, at least, makes Hamilton laugh. “You could say that.” And Thomas does. He knows Hamilton best; he knows the worst of Hamilton. His worst fantasies, his most biting commentary on some poor bastard, and he knows his secrets. Things that the two of them are supposed to take to the grave. “Since you’re an unbiased third party.” 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“I’m trying to compliment your observation.”   
  


“Try harder.” Thomas says, though its tone is more playful than he’s been for most of the night. “Besides, your curfew is getting awfully close. Shouldn’t you start getting ready?” He says, “You have a lot to ponder.”

“I believe that I do.” Hamilton replies, and he bounces back easily, like he always does. But he can see the distance. Can see Hamilton’s inability to properly meet his eyes when he dresses.

“You know, I’ve been good to Eliza for most of our marriage.” He says, trying to excuse himself, try to make himself seem more reputable, to Thomas of all people. 

“So what is this, then? Cashing it all in or something?’   
  


“No.” 

“Then don’t try to convince me of how you’re a good guy  _ really _ .” 

Then Hamilton is quiet again, finishing buttoning up his shirt. “That’s not what I’m trying to do.” 

“Of course you aren’t.” Thomas says, with all the disbelief that one would expect. And when Hamilton finishes buckling his belt, Thomas stands, grabbing his robe off of the hook. Following Hamilton, trying to find their rhythm again, after ruining their silent smoking session, their twenty minutes of peace.

It’s not working.

The silence is thick, heavy as Alexander walks through Thomas’ townhouse. They don’t touch as they walk through the corridor to the front doorway. 

They both stand there for a moment, before Alexander sucks in a breath. “Good night, Thomas.” A bit of intimacy that Thomas refuses to share with him, especially after delving into a territory that is already too vulnerable. 

Thomas will not give Hamilton this, after allowing him so much leeway tonight.

“Good night, Hamilton.” 


	11. She never asked me once about the wrong I did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza and Alexander share the late night together.

_ July 12, 1947 _

_ 1:04 A.M. _

The door opens, and Alexander practically shambles through the door, looking more exhausted than Eliza’s seen in recent memory. His hair covers his face as he stands, slouched over and dejected. 

He’s late again. Earlier than before, yes, but late enough where Philip had already woken up an hour ago to see if Papa had come home yet, and Eliza had lied and said he was in the shower just to get him to fall asleep properly. Philip had been adamant about Alex not coming home so late, and for two weeks, he had managed. For two weeks, he’d come home on time, even on Fridays, and had done the more arduous chores around the house, while insisting that Eliza sat back on the sofa. 

He had been coming home extremely early, arriving even at six, leaving just after his shift was over. And when proposing legislation, even Eliza knew that wouldn’t work. A late night would eventually come. 

Alexander tucks his hair back. It’s always slipping out of his ponytail. Eliza takes him in silently, holding her tongue. 

“I’m sorry.” Alexander says it as the door shuts, muffling the apology. Eliza wonders if it’s deliberate. Does he plan it when he hurts her? Does he not feel it when she feels pain? Is it a distant blow to him?

  
  


Eliza swallows, looking over her husband. Her charming, handsome, pathetic, careless husband. “You’re not.” She says thickly, voice coming out pained as she says it. She doesn’t want to believe it, even though that apology has guilt _ painted _ all over it. 

“I am, Betsey, you _ know _ I am.” He says, finally pulling his head back. His hair falls back, revealing his sad face. It’s dirty, his hair. He meant to wash it this morning. He’d been running late because Angie had demanding attention and Junior had been especially fussy in the morning. 

Eliza’s face doesn’t twist up, no, she remains purposefully straight-faced. Purposefully calm. “What are you sorry for, Alexander?” She’s not sure what he wants him to say. Perhaps the truth, whatever that may be. Just to _ know _ , just to no longer have it weigh on her mind. Maybe then she could be satisfied with the knowledge, rather than be kept up wondering the _ why _ of why he stays up so late.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps he truly was working.Eliza always comforted herself with that.

Alexander had always been a hard worker. He’d always worked long nights and enjoyed knowing that there was a _ purpose _ behind his labor. And what better purpose, what better force, than knowing he was changing his country?

Eliza looks at him, exhausted and pitiful. The expression on his face just tears her up inside, just knowing that she might be the reason he’s so damn upset. The reason that guilt might be tearing him apart– even if he might deserve it– Eliza can’t stand to see him this way. 

She wants to take back her question when he meets her eyes.

“I couldn’t come on time. I know you’re struggling with the kids, and I know you’re–” Alexander stops himself before he says it, looking around. Trying to sense a disturbance in the house. “You’re pregnant.” He says, as though the thought alone wrenches him.

“We don’t know that.” She says, trying to be comforting. Trying to take away some of his guilt, even if it’s the tiniest bit. Or maybe it’s the biggest. She can’t tell anymore.

Sometimes Alexander feels like a stranger to her. Distant, untouchable. A person she could never hope to possess, even when they share the same bed. Even when he wraps his arms around her waist, and his nose, sharp and proud, presses against the back of her neck, she feels far away from him. Loving him, but never able to pick him apart, no matter how many years they’ve been married.

Perhaps that’s the ‘spark’ people talk about. Never truly knowing everything about somebody. Never knowing every piece to their puzzle, nor where it fit. 

Sometimes Alexander felt unending.

“Yes we do, Liza. Don’t try that.” He says, “You’ve never missed the mark at two months.” Alexander says.

“But I haven’t gone to the doctor’s yet.”

“You don’t need to. We know already.” Alexander says. 

Eliza doesn’t know what to say to that. The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy. Eliza tries to pick it apart. This particular dance was new to her. Guilt was never an option, not a real one, anyway. Yes, he’d thrown in a half-assed _ I’m sorry _ after a few nights in a row.

Eliza hates it more than the apathy. The pain in Alexander’s voice is gut wrenching, and she’d do anything to take that burden off of him, though it may be his own fault. Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? To want to relieve someone of pain, even if it’s their own fault, even if they walk into their own demise. To want to save someone, even if it’s from themself.

“It’s okay.” She says. Even though it’s not okay. The late nights hurt more than anything else, burning in her chest like a bile bubbling up in her esophagus. It’s not okay. Eliza doesn’t know if she can forgive him– no, she knows she _ can _. She already has, in her mind, already has started to sympathise and want to coddle him. 

She doesn’t know if she _ should_. 

Alexander shakes his head for a moment, and Eliza finds some relief in knowing he doesn’t accept her forgiveness. Something about that settles her, makes her believe that his guilt is genuine. Perhaps that might be orchestrated on his part. She doesn’t know. 

It takes another few seconds for him to speak, just as gut wrenching a silence as the one before. “Shower with me?” He asks, and it’s a strange request; an intimacy they haven’t shared for almost a year now, with three children allowing for such sparse free time. 

“Okay.” She says quietly, without even thinking of saying no. It’s an odd trance that Alexander puts her under. One where she just wants to see him happy, to see him settled. 

To see him at peace, just for a little bit.

Eliza stands, letting him lead her to their bedroom. Up the stairs, at the end of the hall. He opens the door for her, and she pulls out her rollers. She has nowhere to be tomorrow, anyways. No company, nobody to see her.

The scene feels too distant still, even as they strip. Alexander unbuttons his coat tediously. Then unbuttons his vest, then pulls it off. Then his shirt, then off. 

Eliza pulls the hem of her nightgown off, turning it back right side out, setting it right in the hamper. She steps out of her undergarments, giving them the same treatment. 

She pulls out the bobby pins from her rollers. She doesn’t have many, her hair doesn’t retain much curl, anyways, but the process still leaves her scalp aching. She undoes each one, setting each roller on the counter. As she looks up in the mirror, she realizes they hadn’t taken yet, anyways.

Eliza turns to Alexander, helps him set his undershirt while he deals with the rest of his clothing; it’s slightly damp with residual sweat from the day. Alexander always complains that it’s too hot in his office. 

It feels strange. Both clinical and intimate. 

Alexander makes an ‘uhm’ noise as he reaches around to grab at the handle, turning the water warm. 

Eliza steps in first, and her hair takes a little longer than his to get fully wet. She steps out of the way for him to get under the spray. 

They still don’t touch. They’re just around one another, breathing the same air and brushing against one another. Perhaps this is Alexander’s apology. Simply spending time with each other. Comfortable silence. Something they hadn’t had in a long time. Their silences had been uneasy, uncomfortable, for a long time now.

Eliza sees him struggle to get his loofah along his back. She gently takes it from his hand, and he lets her without question. She gently scrubs down his back, as he leans against the tiled wall. As his head is slumped beneath the spray. 

Eliza washes at his lower back, at his shoulder blades. At his arms. Gentle, slow circles.

She nudges him forward, stepping fully beneath the shower head. As she helps wash off the soap, brushing over old scars, now long healed.

His hair is still slick with conditioner, and she reaches over, helping him. “I missed you.” She says quietly, massaging the conditioner into his scalp. “You’ve only been home a couple of weeks, and you’re already gone.” She murmurs, and her own voice sounds tired to her. Raspy, and almost drowned out by the sound of the shower. 

“Eliza...” He says, already steeling himself for the conversation. 

“I don’t want to argue.” She says, voice more firm. “I just want you to know that I wait for you.”

“I know you do, Betsey.” 

“I wait for you, and you come home late.” She says, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, gripping him close as she places her forehead between his shoulder blades, just beneath the nape of his neck. “And I understand you have to work overtime a lot, but maybe not at two in the morning. Just come home at midnight, just come home with enough time for us to talk for more than five minutes before we both have to sleep again. _ Please, Alexander. _ ” She practically begs, pleads with him. “Please, just be my _ husband _ again.”

he wishes she could be more firm with him, but she fears being the nagging wife, pushing Alexander too far away from her, creating a rift that could never be closed. And this time, it would be her fault. Her fault for not being pleasant enough, not being good enough as a wife.

“I know you do.” He says again. “And I’m trying.” He says.

_ Not enough. _The thought alone is damning.

“I know you are.”

“I love you.” Alexander says it like it’s insisted, like he’s trying to convince Eliza of it.

Eliza meets his eyes. Water clings to his eyelashes. His eyes are dark under the yellow lamplight. She doesn’t respond.

Alexander steps out first, as Eliza wraps her hair in a towel while inside the tub, not wanting to get the floor wet.

He hands her a towel, a small kindness. A small consideration for how she might feel. And she wraps the towel around herself, picking up her undergarments, and tossing them in the dirty laundry. She doesn’t know what to say. But the silence is expectant, and Eliza knows she won’t be able to go to sleep without answering him. Not with the way he keeps glancing back at her.

Eliza pulls out another nightgown. She wills herself to hold out for longer, to not simply say _ I love you _ in turn, like an idiot. She has to find something to say, something that will get him back, that will pick at him and put him under a spotlight. Make him uncomfortable for once.

She pulls on her undergarments, then her nightgown. Brushing down the skirt. She watches Alexander pull on his drawers, then another shirt. He always hated when his nightshirts stuck too close to his skin, said it made him cold.

He was always cold, in this weather. He always talked about how he misses the weather from Nevis. It was always warm there, and Alexander misses it in the unpleasant, biting cold of D.C. Eliza could never blame him, either. It was something they could always complain about together; they made whinging an art form when it came to the dry, frigid weather. Eliza tries not to think of their long winded complaining-sessions. 

In the darkness, Alexander looks like a specter of himself. A haunted version of her husband; and isn’t that what he had become? A hollow ghost of himself?

In the darkness, both of them getting ready for bed together, it almost seems like they’re young again. Like they were in the beginning all over again. Eliza tries not to think of that either, especially not as she says it.

“Where were you tonight?” It’s the firmest that she can be with him. The coldest that she will allow herself to treat him. Damn her and her lenience. 

Angelica did always say that it’d kill her one day. Her tendency to forgive. Even now, she had forgiven Alexander before he’d even answered. Before knowing if he even had done anything wrong. It wouldn’t matter either way, for Eliza had forgiven him. 

“I was at work.” He says, and he takes hold of her chin, forcing eye contact. “I swear to you, ‘Liza, I was at work.” It’s his turn to plead now, to try to convince Eliza of its truth. And maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe, against all odds, against common sense, he was telling the truth. Maybe her suspicions were wrong.

She wanted more than anything to be wrong. 

And she can tell Alexander is guilty. Perhaps it was just sympathy for her. Maybe he did care enough to feel guilt for his actions, as unlikely as that is. 

Perhaps it was something else. Something had finally happened, something had finally snapped. 

Eliza slumps over, defeated. Too tired to argue with her husband, to pick apart his schedule, to… do anything. She can’t win. Even if she wanted to, even if she was willing to dig to her own unhappiness, Alexander held the power.

What was she, but his wife? If he wanted, he could zip his mouth shut, and demand she rid herself of the conversation altogether. She would have no leverage, no power over him. What power would she have besides perhaps making his meals unpleasant, besides keeping the house untidy? Then, she’d only make her own life just as unpleasant.

Whatever she inflicted on Alexander, she would suffer as well. A wife, an extension of her husband.Her priest had a habit of saying that, and now, the idea seemed to have a morbid credence.

“I love you, Alexander. You know that.” 

Part of her feels at a loss, grasping to see if Alexander will say anything besides what she expects. _ I know. _Another platitude. 

“I know, Betsey.” He says. And he does know, more than sure of it. Eliza is angry for how settled he is in the knowledge, when she loses sleep waiting for him to come home, loses sleep wondering if he’s alright, if he’s hurting her behind her back, late in the night. 

“Sometimes it feels like you don’t, though.And I need you to do better, if you want to fix things between us. You can’t keep doing this to me.” She says, vision blurry as she starts trying to swallow back tears. “You can’t.” 

Alexander looks at her, looks at_ her, _for the first time in months. “I know.” He admits. “I’m trying.”

Eliza feels his hand slide in to hold her’s, and she sucks in a shuddery breath. She feels a squeeze, an attempt at reassurance, if a pitiful one. 

“I know you are.” Eliza murmurs, rubbing at his hand with her thumb, trying to find a semblance of intimacy, before squeezing back. Her heart aches, sore from so much hurt. 

She lets go. 

“I want to sleep.” She murmurs, refusing to listen to Alexander’s insistence that he loves her anymore.

Eliza sits on the edge of the bed, looking up at him. “I’d never lie to you, Alexander.” She murmurs, taking his hand again and pressing her cheek against his. “I just ask that you do the same for me.” 

“I won’t.” And it sounds like a promise. A real one this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Follow me @collinhoskins on tumblr and @euterpse on instagram, I'll answer any dms/questions abt my fic there, or, for my writing blog @marliza ! lmk !


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